1 


OJ1  C1LIF.  LIBRABY,   LOS 


JT  <       0 


The   CRADLE 
of   the    ROSE 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 


THE     MARTYRDOM     OF     AN     EMPRESS" 

"EMERALD  AND  ERMINE"  "GRAY  MIST" 
"THE  TRIDENT  AND  THE   NET"   ETC. 

OKFICIER  DE  L'ORDKE  DEL'INSTKUCTION  PUBLIQUE  DE  FRANCE 


ILLUSTRATED  WITH   WATER-COLOR 
DRAWINGS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
NEW      YORK       AND       LONDON 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

AIL  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1908. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE    WATCH-TOWER    OF    FORT    ROZKAVEL Frontispiece 

KERHARDE'C  FARM Facingp.  128 

A    CORNER    OF    THE    MANOIR    OF    KREMARZE        ....          "          196 
THE    CHATEAU    DE    ROZKAVEL "         264 


THE    CRADLE    OF   THE    ROSE 


ROZKAVEL 

Within  the  Rose,  as  once  did  lie 
The  Beauty  of  a  day  gone  by, 
Biding,  till  Hate  had  spent  its  power, 
The  sword,  the  Hero,  and  the  hour 
Of  bud  and  bloom  and  summer  sky; 

So  slumber  on,  undoomed  to  die, 
Strength,  Loveliness,  and  Honor  high 
(Leafless  and  withered  though  the  bower) 
Within  the  Rose. 

One  day  in  song  the  birds  shall  vie, 
One  day  the  swallows  darting  fly, 
And  hands  undaunted  shake  a  shower 
Of  fragrance  from  the  Royal  Flower, 
Seeking  those  happy  portals  nigh 
Within  the  Rose. 

M.  M. 


THE  CRADLE  OF  THE  ROSE 


CHAPTER  I 

Unseen  and  strong,  the  brightness  underlying 
Not  less  than  storm,  whose  rivers  blindly  run 
True  as  a  circling  star,  yet  still  defying 
The  courses  of  the  sun; 

Knowest  thou  also  'neath  his  far  uprising 
Thy  native  source  in  times  forever  gone, 
That  thou  hast  held  since  days  beyond  surmising 
The  Highways  of  the  Dawn  ? 

And  warm  with  deep  desire — a  faithful  presage — 
Sweep'st  the  bleak  skerries  of  Newfoundland's  shore, 
Smoking  with  fog,  undaunted  by  the  message 
Of  iron  Labrador  ? 

Ah,  sweet  the  quest  along  that  path  Elysian, 
Primrose,  or  gold,  or  under  midnight  skies 
Levelled  in  leaping  silver  to  the  vision 
Of  weary,  wakeful  eyes! 

The  Gulf  Stream. — M.  M. 

THE  swimmer  was  floating  on  his  back,  a  mile  or  so 
from  shore,  his  clear-cut  profile  almost  level  with  the 
silken  list  of  a  singularly  quiet  sea.  He  blinked  now 
and  again  rather  moodily  through  down-drawn  lashes 
up  at  the  delicately  flushed  morning  sky,  for  he  sorely 
missed  the  joyous  tumble  of  waves  which  made  his  daily 
plunge  so  pleasant,  and  completely  failed  to  appreciate 

3 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  glassiness  of  the  water  and  its  warmth,  unseason 
able  even  there  in  the  full  sweep  of  the  great  Gulf  Stream. 
The  sun  was  bright  for  Brittany,  where  it  is  mostly  veiled 
and  discreet,  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  the  trails  of  rosy 
dawn-mist  behind  which  a  flock  of  gulls,  according  to 
their  time-honored  custom,  shrilly  defied  one  another  from 
three  points  of  an  imaginary  triangle,  were  rapidly  dis 
solving  into  the  azure  air,  calm  as  on  a  midsummer 
day. 

Very  faintly  the  echo  of  a  church-bell  quite  a  bit  in 
land,  calling  the  faithful  to  early  mass,  roused  Olier  de 
Frehel  from  the  half-drowse  into  which  he  was  drifting, 
and  caused  him  to  notice  a  strong  pungency  of  sea-weed 
coming  from  Heaven  alone  knew  where,  since  the  nearest 
outcroppings  of  reef,  with  their  briny  fringes,  were  so  far 
off  as  to  be  wholly  beyond  the  possibility  of  perception. 

"What  the  devil — "  he  was  beginning,  when  a  low, 
bubbling  sound — a  mysterious  tearing  of  the  still  water, 
that  suddenly  dimpled  and  purled  into  millions  of  tiny 
shining  blisters — made  him  open  wide  his  eyes;  and  the 
next  instant  a  broad  bed  of  slimy  growth,  torn  from  the 
Atlantic  floor,  heaved  up  beneath  him,  lapping  him 
closely  in  a  tangled  half-acre  of  supple  thongs.  In  a 
flash  he  knew  that  to  struggle  against  that  floating  mesh 
meant  certain  death,  and  he  forced  himself  to  lie  in  corpse- 
like  immobility,  though  every  separate  nerve  ached  and 
strained  under  pressure  of  the  maddening  temptation  to 
try  and  free  himself  at  any  cost.  Corpselike,  too,  the 
face  would  have  seemed  now,  gray  under  its  golden  coat 
of  tan,  the  gripping  teeth  showing  white  upon  the  color 
less  under-lip,  had  it  not  been  for  the  savage  anger  of  the 
eyes — fear  had  no  place  there,  only  rage:  fierce,  unreason 
ing  rage  at  being  held  by  an  imbecile,  inert  force  one 
could  not  even  attempt  to  fight. 

4 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  Was  it  still  the  echo  of 
the  bell  or  merely  the  pounding  of  his  arteries?  .  .  .  He 
gazed  fixedly  at  a  pink  wisp  of  cloud  immediately  above 
his  head,  miles  up  there  in  the  blue,  and  again  began  to 
count — the  strokes  of  his  own  knell,  for  when  that  viscid 
snare  went  down  again,  as  sooner  or  later  it  surely  must, 
he  would  go  down,  too ;  that  he  never  doubted  for  a  second. 
Forgotten  tales  of  such  grim  happenings,  gleaned  in  boy 
hood  among  the  fisher-folk,  awoke  in  his  remembrance  with 
the  vividness  of  just-heard  speech;  and  one  especially — of 
a  bather  who  had  thus  been  dragged  down  in  sight  of  his 
wife  and  daughter,  to  be  left  by  the  tide  three  days  later 
on  the  flats  of  Pen-Arze",  still  wound  inextricably  in  his 
shroud  of  sea-twine.  He  seemed  to  hear  the  grizzled  nar 
rator  of  the  story  using  it  to  point  the  universal  maxim  of 
the  Breton  coast,  that  swimming  is  a  useless  accomplish 
ment  at  best,  and  only  makes  it  harder  for  a  man  to  die. 
Why  not,  then,  deliberately  hasten  the  end,  since  it  might 
delay,  pitilessly  imminent,  during  many  hours  ? 

.  .  .  One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  four  ...  he  nevertheless 
mechanically  continued  to  whisper  within  himself.  It  must 
be  the  bell,  after  all;  and  his  wavering  ideas  formed  them 
selves  unwittingly  into  an  oft-seen  peaceful  little  picture: 
the  old  Cure",  who  twenty-four  years  before  had  christened 
him,  walking  hurriedly  and  a  little  breathlessly  up  the  nar 
row  path  through  the  burial  ground  to  his  small  lichen- 
grown  church,  his  rusty  black  soutane  brushing  the  tide  of 
fresh  new  grass  and  pink  witches-thimble  rising  about  the 
granite  of  the  tombs,  his  dim  blue  eyes  a  little  anxious 
at  the  thought  that  he  was  late  perhaps,  neglecting  his 
duties.  .  .  .  Duty  ?  Why,  it  was  a  duty,  too,  to  hold  on  to 
one's  life;  most  certainly  a  duty  to  endure  to  the  last, 
without  weakness  or  faltering! 

One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  three  .  .  .  One  .  .  .  two  .  .  .  Oh  yes, 

5 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

it  was  the  church  -  bell,  and  its  persistent  echo  became 
a  fulcrum  on  which  to  lever  up  his  remaining  strength. 
He  seemed  to  stand  the  insupportable  swarming  tingle 
of  all  those  little  tentacles  better  when  he  counted.  But 
how  long  could  he  go  on  counting  ? 

He  was  beginning  to  feel  as  though  his  brain  were  shrink 
ing  to  the  smallness  of  a  pellet  and  rocking  in  his  empty 
head,  when,  without  warning,  the  whole  undulating  eyot  of 
weed  sank  noiselessly  from  him,  mysteriously  returning 
whence  it  came.  For  a  moment — a  very  long  moment — 
Olier  maintained  the  same  unyielding  rigidity,  and  then, 
with  a  choking  gasp,  rolled  over  on  his  side,  as  near  un 
consciousness  as  he  had  ever  been  in  his  strong  young  life. 

The  strange,  dull  feeling  passed  off  almost  at  once, 
however,  and  though  the  gleam  of  the  smooth  water  made 
him  a  little  giddy  still,  after  a  while  he  managed  to  strike 
out  shoreward  in  a  groping,  halting  way — utterly  unlike 
his  usual  manner,  it  is  true,  but  with  gradually  stronger 
strokes,  which  at  last  brought  him  to  the  sloping  shingle- 
beach.  With  a  deep-drawn  sigh  of  relief  he  stretched 
out  at  full  length  to  get  his  breath  again. 

He  had  been  much  more  shaken  than  he  would  have 
cared  to  own,  and  in  consequence  felt  very  unjustly  dis 
gusted  with  himself.  Nevertheless,  the  barren,  desolate, 
lonely  beach,  with  its  long  stretches  of  gray  pebbles 
merging  into  long  stretches  of  coarse,  salt  -  powdered 
grasses,  looked  actually  beautiful  to  him  just  then,  and  he 
reflected,  as  he  lay  watching  a  tiny  blue  ripple  break  into 
transparent  foam  embroidery  at  his  feet,  that  life  was  a 
marvellously  agreeable  possession,  after  all,  and  an  un 
commonly  unpleasant  one  to  lose — especially  in  so  in 
glorious  a  fashion,  snarled  in  tangle  like  a  bit  of  drift 
wood.  Even  in  his  present  somewhat  exhausted  condi 
tion,  the  very  pose  of  his  well-knit  frame  spoke  of  great 

6 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

latent  strength  and  activity,  and  of  a  life  spent  mostly 
out-of-doors,  for  so  much  wholesomeness  is  not  bred  be 
tween  four  walls.  The  face  was  perhaps  a  trifle  too 
square,  as  was  the  obstinate  Breton  forehead  beneath 
the  short-cropped  blond  hair;  but  the  deep-set,  dark-gray 
eyes  were  in  total  disaccord  with  it,  for  they  were  dis 
tinctly  those  of  a  dreamer  of  dreams — of  one  who  might 
on  occasion  look  hungrily  upon  a  lost  cause,  an  im 
possible  scheme,  or  champion  an  idea  deemed  wholly 
obsolete.  Again,  the  grimly  curved,  clean-shaven  lips 
were  much  too  severe  when  not  smiling,  the  nose  un 
compromisingly  straight,  and  the  chin  and  lower  jaw 
just  as  uncompromising.  Taken  all  in  all,  a  fair,  quiet, 
eminently  self-reliant  youth,  possessed  of  enviably  pure 
blood,  a  resolute  will,  an  iron  constitution,  and  a  few 
wind-swept  acres  surrounding  a  little  old  Manor,  which, 
together  with  half  a  dozen  "family  retainers"  and  the 
scant  remnants  of  a  once  large  fortune,  had  been  be 
queathed  to  him  by  his  parents  during  his  minority.  For 
the  last  six  months  he  had  lived  alone  at  Kremarze,  hav 
ing  asked  for  a  year's  leave  immediately  after  reaching 
the  rank  of  ensign,  because  he  could  not  approve  of  the 
new  ideas  beginning  to  taint  even  the  navy.  Naturally, 
he  had  not  given  that  as  his  reason  for  wishing  to  be  re 
lieved  from  duty  for,  comparatively  speaking,  so  long  a 
period;  but  still  it  was  only  because  he  had  not  been 
questioned  that  he  had  not  done  so,  since  he  certainly 
was  not  one  of  those  who  hesitate  to  own  their  opinions 
or  principles  out  of  a  fear  of  blame  or  ridicule. 

Presently  this  very  un-modern  young  man,  but  newly 
snatched  from  the  jaws  of  a  peculiarly  ugly  death,  rose 
with  a  yawn  from  his  recumbent  position  and  sauntered 
toward  a  chaotic  row  of  bowlders,  between  two  of  which 
he  had  contrived  a  sufficiently  convenient  substitute  for 

7 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

a  bath-house.  In  a  very  few  minutes  he  emerged  again, 
gaitered  and  tweeded,  paused  in  the  middle  of  a  patch  of 
silvery  sand-thistles  to  light  a  cigarette,  and  then  started 
at  a  brisk  pace  along  the  rough  track  leading  across  the 
wide  lande  to  his  small  domain. 

Away  up  above  him  a  sand-lark  was  singing  at  the  top 
of  its  little  voice,  twirling  and  turning  madly  with  the 
very  vibration  of  its  song,  and  Olier,  fired  by  the  example, 
fell  to  whistling  a  gay  ronde  tune  between  puffs,  and  now 
and  again  craning  his  neck  so  far  backward  to  watch 
the  antics  of  the  bird,  that  he  suddenly  cannoned  into  the 
sole  other  wayfarer  upon  the  vast  stretch  of  heather- 
grown  table-land  for  miles  around. 

"Eh  bien,  M'sieu  I'Comte;  you're  good  and  uncon 
strained  this  morning!"  the  Garde-Champetre  grumbled, 
rubbing  his  broad  shoulder  and  hitching  up  the  strap 
of  his  old-fashioned  musket  at  one  and  the  same  time. 

"What  about  yourself,  Guemadeuc?"  Olier  cried, laugh 
ing  heartily.  "You  must  have  been  star-gazing  at  mid 
day,  too,  or  else  how  is  it  you  did  not  see  me  coming?" 

"I  wasn't  star-gazing,  as  you  call  it,  M'sieu  Olier,"  the 
other  retorted,  smiling  grimly  beneath  his  grizzled  mus 
tache.  "Not  star-gazing  at  all.  I  was  .  .  .  thinking." 

Olier  stared  quizzically  at  the  soldierly  face  on  a  level 
with  his  own.  There  was  a  harsh  look  in  the  light-blue 
eyes,  a  concentration  upon  the  weather-beaten  features 
that  he  had  never  seen  there,  though  Guemadeuc  was  a 
hard  man,  and  not  famed  for  amenity  or  amiability  of 
manner. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  dropping  his  banter 
and  speaking  in  a  quick,  decisive  tone. 

"Everything's  the  matter,"  Guemadeuc  replied,  shortly. 
"But  where's  the  use  of  bothering  you  with  my  troubles 
,  .  .  man  officier?" 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

The  last  two  words,  pronounced  after  an  infinitesimal 
pause,  had  in  them  a  ring  that  did  not  pass  unnoticed. 

"You  need  not  remember  that  just  now.  Let's  speak 
as  between  friends.  What  is  the  matter?" 

"Oh!  if  you  take  it  that  way,  it's  different,  M'sieu  Olier. 
You've  always  been  our  friend,  as  your  father  was  before 
you,  and  there  are  very  few  of  your  sort  left  to  us  poor 
devils  nowadays — worse  luck!" 

They  had  struck  into  another  cross-track,  bordered 
with  budding  clumps  of  apricot-scented  furze,  leading  to 
Cape  Rozkavel,  a  couple  of  miles  off,  and  away  from 
Kremarze",  for  Olier's  interest  was  aroused  now,  and  he 
dismissed  all  idea  of  breakfasting  until  he  had  thoroughly 
"disentangled  Guemadeuc's  cordage,"  as  he  would  have 
expressed  it.  He  was  essentially  a  sailor  in  heart  and 
thought,  was  Olier,  although  he  set  some  things  higher 
even  than  the  deep-rooted  love  of  his  metier  ;  and,  well 
aware  that  if  he  allowed  the  Garde-Champetre  to  relapse 
into  his  characteristic  Armorican  muteness  he  would 
find  it  difficult  to  pull  him  out  of  it  again,  he  proceeded 
to  beat  the  iron  while  still  hot. 

"You  were  about  to  tell  me  something,"  he  said,  quick 
ly,  but  without  the  least  shade  of  curiosity  in  his  voice. 

Guemadeuc  did  not  answer  at  once.  It  was  plain  to 
Olier  that  the  force  of  long  habit  made  him  reluctant  to 
air  his  grievances,  even  in  such  safe  company,  and  nearly 
a  minute  elapsed  before  he  finally  spoke. 

"It's  like  this,  M'sieu  Olier,"  he  began,  with  the  hesita 
tion  of  a  taciturn  and  hereditarily  silent  man  launching 
into  reprehensible  loquacity — "it's  like  this.  I'm  think 
ing  of  sending  back  that"  —  and  he  tapped  the  broad 
silver  badge  fastened  to  the  lapel  of  his  faded  corduroy 
coat — "where  it  came  from." 

"Resign?"    Olier   said,   amazed.     "Yours   is   a   fairly 

9 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

good  job,  Guemadeuc,  well  paid  for  the  amount  of  work; 
and  you  have  a  large  family  to  support.  What  ails  you, 
any  way?" 

"The  thought  that  I'm  about  to  feed  my  little  ones 
on  dishonest  bread,  M'sieu  Olier,  that's  all;  and,  by  the 
cloak  of  St.  Tugduald,  I'd  sooner  let  them  go  to  the 
doors1  than  do  that." 

"I  must  confess  that  I  don't  understand  a  word  of 
what  you  say,"  Olier  interposed,  narrowing  his  eyes, 
sailor-fashion,  to  observe  the  other  more  keenly.  "Would 
you  mind  making  yourself  a  bit  clearer?" 

"Certainly  not,  now  that  I've  gone  so  far.  And,  to 
begin  with,  what  am  I  hired  to  do  ?  Run  after  poachers 
and  report  on  ordinary  delinquents — fighting  drunkards, 
tapageurs,  or  wife-beaters — that's  what  I'm  meant  for, 
is  it  not  so?" 

"Assuredly." 

"Does  it  include  turning  spy  on  honest,  God-fearing 
folk,  and  crawling  in  the  mud  on  my  belly  to  do  such — 
I  who  have  won  my  three  chevrons  and  the  military  medal 
in  the  field — think  you,  M'sieu  1'Comte?" 

"Of  course  not.  But  who  is  asking  you  to  do  dirty 
work?"  inquired  Olier, impatiently.  "You  are  not  going 
mad,  are  you?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  I'm  as  sane  as  yourself,  M'sieu  Olier. 
But  just  let  me  ask  you  something.  Are  you  acquainted 
with  Dulac,  our  Deputy?" 

Olier  nodded.  He  was  beginning  to  see  the  draw  of 
the  drift. 

"Know  his  secretary,  too?" 

"I've  seen  him  at  the  Concours  Regional,  I  believe.  .  .  . 
A  swarthy,  little,  scrawny  mocco?  with  gimlet  eyes  and  a 
blue  chin?" 

1  Beg.  2  Marseillais. 

10 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"That's  my  man,  .  .  .  and  a  nasty  little  monkey  he  is, 
too.  Well,  he  sent  for  me  last  week  to  meet  him  at 
Kerdikan's  inn,  where  he  was  lodging — with  his  valet, 
if  you  please!  Wouldn't  it  make  you  sweat  pitch  to 
think  of  a  voyou  like  him  giving  himself  the  airs  of  a 
seigneur?  But  let  that  go.  He  sent  for  me,  Alain 
Guemadeuc,  Garde-Champetre  of  Rozkavel  parish,  that's 
the  important  fact,  in  order  to  tell  me  .  .  .  what  do  you 
suppose,  M'sieu  Olier?  .  .  .  I'll  give  you  a  magpie's  egg 
with  a  golden  yolk  if  you  can  guess?" 

"What?" 

"Oh,  a  mere  trifle.  .  .  .  Nothing  he  found  difficult  to 
ask,  I  could  see,  for  he.  talked  quite  naturally  in  that 
buttery  voice  he's  got.  .  .  .  Only  that  I  was  to  find  out  as 
quick  as  I  could  who  goes  to  Mass  in  the  arrondissement, 
and  who  does  not;  who  is  'pure  red' — that's  his  exact 
word — and  who  isn't;  .  .  .  who  grumbles  against  the 
gouvernement  Daux,  and  who  doesn't ; .  .  .  who  gives  money 
to  the  Catholic  missions,  and  who  to  help  the  cashiered 
Cures.  ...  I  was  looking  at  him,  open-mouthed,  like  a 
cretin,  all  the  time  he  was  talking,  twirling  my  cap  in 
my  hand,  and  he,  thinking  I  hadn't  understood  him,  re 
peated  the  whole  string  of  tricks,  adding  to  it,  as  he  went 
along,  speaking  of  my  'civic  duties,'  the  'sacredness  of 
the  cause  of  liberty,'  and  a  lot  of  truck  like  that!  Liberty! 
.  .  .  pshaw!  .  .  .  liberty  to  starve  or  murder,  that's  all  the 
liberty  one's  likely  to  find  in  the  end.  Little  by  little  I 
began  to  see  red,  'pure  red'  sure  enough  it  was,  and  I 
came  near  to  mopping  the  floor  with  his  skinny  carcass." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  called  a  halt  to  my  appetite  for  his  throat, 
just  in  time;  but  I  broke  loose,  and  told  him  what  I 
thought  of  his  good  manners,  .  .  .  told  him  in  terms  I 
wouldn't  repeat  before  you,  M'sieu  Olier,  naval  officer 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

though  you  are,  and  accustomed  to  language.  .  .  .  Oh, 
yes!  I  told  him,  and  slammed  the  door  hard  enough  to 
bring  down  the  ceiling,  and  left  him  gaping  and  choking 
with  fright  in  his  tight  black  frock-coat,  that  fits  him  as 
gaiters  would  a  rock-rabbit." 

"And  you  are  still  Garde-Champetre?"  Olier  asked,  in 
sincere  astonishment. 

"That's  what  torments  me  most,  M'sieu  Olier.  I  was 
certain  sure  that  I'd  be  broken  like  a  simple  pipe-stem. 
But  'stead  of  that  I've  not  heard  from  him  again,  nor  his 
canaille  of  a  patron  either;  and  it  disquiets  me,  because 
it's  understandable  that  he  is  not  likely  to  pocket  my 
insults  without  peeping;  ...  it  wouldn't  be  natural,  es 
pecially  for  a  parvenu  like  him.  So  I'm  thinking  it 
would  be  much  better  to  resign  quick,  of  my  own  accord, 
before  they've  got  a  chance  to  fire  me  dirtily." 

Standing  stock-still,  before  his  companion,  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  sandy  rut,  Olier  was  doing  some  rapid  think 
ing,  for  on  his  advice  he  knew  much  might  depend;  and 
his  own  position  being  under  existing  circumstances  deli 
cate,  he  felt  himself  to  be  in  something  of  a  quandary. 

"Wait  a  bit  Guemadeuc,"  he  said  at  last.  "This  is  a 
serious  matter  for  you,  and  shouldn't  be  decided  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment." 

"To  be  sure;  only  I'm  not  going  to  lie  down  flat  to  my 
teeth  waiting  to  be  kicked,  that's  all.  I've  had,  in  any 
case,  about  enough  of  the  whole  boutique.  D'  you  know 
that  out  Morbihan  way  a  venerable  priest  of  God  has 
been  arrested  for  carrying  the  Holy  Sacraments  to  a 
dying  woman?  Have  you  heard  that  it's  illegal  nowa 
days  to  christen  one's  children  by  what  they  call  the 
names  of  kings  and  queens.  .  .  .  Yes!"  he  suddenly  shouted, 
pounding  one  thick  fist  in  the  palm  of  the  other  hand. 
"No  more  Henris  nor  Henriettes,  .  .  .  nor  Louis  nor 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Francois,  I  dare  say,  ...  a  while  ago  we  saw  Breton 
soldiers  ordered  to  knock  the  stuffing  out  of  Breton 
fishermen  who  were  defending  the  nuns  that  brought  up 
their  little  ones  the  way  they  should  go ; ...  our  crucifixes 
are  thrown  down  and  trampled  upon,  our  priests  are  cash 
iered  like  unfaithful  employees;  .  .  .  our  hospitals  are 
filled  with  fast  women,  instead  of  the  Sisters  of  Mercy 
that  consoled  and  helped  us  when  we  were  sick  and  wound 
ed;  ...  and  still  we  must  keep  quiet,  it  appears!  I  have 
never  been  a  malcontent,  M'sieu  Olier;  I'm  not  against 
the  Republic,  if  it's  a  good  one;  Badinguet1  or  a  president 
above  us  is  all  one  to  me,  since  our  kings  have  in  one 
fashion  or  another  left  us  in  the  lurch.  Carnot  was  a 
good  man,  and  so  was  our  old  Marshal.2  I  served  under 
him  in  '70,  and  I  know  that  if  he  could  swallow  that  style 
of  government,  it  can't  be  altogether  bad.  But  now" — 
he  raised  his  clinched  hands  furiously  above  his  head — • 
11  bon  Dieu  de  bon  Dieu!  —  is  there  nothing  we  can  do? 
Nothing  at  all  to  make  those  villains  go  to  the  right 
about?" 

"Softly,  softly,  my  good  Guemadeuc,"  Olier  quickly 
interposed.  "You  are  a  little  too  seditious  for  your  own 
safety.  Remember  that  even  heather  and  broom  have 
been  known  to  have  ears  round  here  of  late.  You  must 
really  be  more  careful." 

"And  since  when  have  you  yourself  become  so  cautious, 
M'sieu  Olier  ?  You  and  Prudence  have  not  often  travelled 
the  same  road." 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  myself,"  Olier  impatiently  re 
torted,  "but  of  you,  who  are  still  in  government  employ, 
and  as  such  must — "  Here  he  paused  in  embarrass 
ment.  .  .  .  "Well,  must  respect  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  the  .  .  .  the 

1  Napoleon  III.  *  MacMahon. 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

principle  of  ...  of  authority,"  he  hastily  concluded,  angry 
at  the  lameness  of  his  words. 

" Sapristi!  M'sieu  Olier,  it  must  have  cost  you  some 
thing  to  disgorge  that  piece  of  advice,"  the  other  said, 
with  a  quick  twinkle  of  his  searching  eyes.  "More 
especially  seeing  that  you're  not  on  a  year's  leave  to 
watch  the  almond-trees  bloom  at  Kremarze"!  I'm  not 
such  a  fool  as  I  look,  mon  Lieutenant,  and  your  case  may 
have  some  little  likeness  to  mine,  saving  the  respect  I 
owe  you." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Olier,  irritably. 

"Bah!  It's  not  only  us  poor  wretches  who  are  galled 
by  the  harness  that  don't  fit  snug  any  more.  I've  been 
a  soldier,  and  a  good  one,  I  flatter  myself;  I  know  the 
respect  due  to  superiors — when  they  are  superiors — and 
how  to  obey  orders,  when  they  are  properly  given;  but 
everything  is  topsy-turvy  now,  and  it's  no  longer  worth 
while  to  try  and  do  one's  duty.  Sailors,  soldiers,  or  va-nu- 
pieds,  metayers,  or  fishermen,  poor  and  rich,  nobles  and 
commoners,  everybody  has  lost  the  North.  .  .  .  The  ship 
can't  answer  bad  helmsmen,  can  it?  And  that's  why 
we  are  going  to  the  dogs." 

"You  should  become  a  public  orator,  Guemadeuc. 
I  had  no  idea  you  were  gifted  with  such  forensic  talent." 

"Oh,  you  can  laugh,  mon  gentilhomme  —  although  in 
your  heart  of  hearts  you  don't  feel  so  very  much  like 
laughing!  Old  Guemadeuc,  once  Sergeant  Guemadeuc, 
of  the  24th  Spahis,  if  you  please,  can  put  two  and  two 
together.  .  .  .  And  now  as  you  don't  look  inclined  to  ad 
vise  me,  I  am  off  to  Rozkavel,  where  I  have  to  cast  an  eye 
over  whatever  devil's  cuisine  a  band  of  Parisian  workmen, 
who  are  turning  the  place  upside  down,  may  be  up  to." 

"Rozkavel,  the  dismantled  fort?" 

"Why,  sure.  I  know  of  no  other  Rozkavel — at  least 

14 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

not  since  the  poor  old  castle  yonder,"  and  he  pointed  over 
his  shoulder  to  some  invisible  nook  of  the  vaporous  cliff- 
line  behind  him,  "has  been  in  the  paws  of  the  Citoyen 
Poteau.  The  dismantled  fort,  of  course,  rented  now  by 
our  gouvernants" — he  touched  his  velveteen  cap  with 
mock  reverence — "to  some  rich  rastaqoueres,  who  must  to 
my  thinking  be  stark  mad — excepting  they  have  some 
queer  purpose  in  view;  for  why  anybody  wants  to  go  rent 
ing  a  pile  of  rocks  miles  from  anywhere  beats  me." 

"The  millionaires,  who  fancy  Rozkavel  as  a  summer 
residence,  should  be  people  of  simple  tastes,"  Olier  said, 
dryly.  "But  you  must  be  mistaken,  Guemadeuc.  It 
seems  scarcely  possible  that  anybody  could  dream  of 
living  there." 

"No,  M'sieu  Olier,  I'm  not  mistaken;  and  wait  till  a 
whole  tribe  of  foreigners  comes  bag  and  baggage  down 
upon  us — you'll  see  gay  times." 

"Heaven  forfend.     I  am  here  to  be  left  in  peace." 

"Not  if  those  same  rastaqoueres  can  help  it.  They've 
got  fine  noses  for  hunting  up  nobles,  and  if  they  have  but 
one  or  two  marriageable  daughters — 

"I'm  not  in  the  market,"  Olier  exclaimed,  repressing 
a  laugh.  "Quit  invoking  evil  upon  a  sorely  troubled 
head,  Guemadeuc, .  .  .  and  listen  to  this.  If  ...  mind  you, 
only  if  ...  you  should  find  yourself  without  a  place,  I 
have  heard  that  Monsieur  de  Tremoer  is  looking  for  a 
gamekeeper,  and  I  might  drop  him  a  line  about  you, 
should  you  wish  me  to  do  so." 

"Wish  you  to  do  so,  M'sieu  Olier!  I'll  never  forget 
your  goodness.  .  .  .  Gamekeeper  to  M'sieu  1'Marquis  de 
Tremoer!  That's  more  than  I  ever  dreamed  of  becoming. 
.  .  .  Rozkavel  and  its  workmen  can  jolly  well  take  care  of 
each  other.  I'm  for  home  this  minute  to  write  out  my 
resignation;  you  can  take  your  oath  on  that.  And, 

is 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

mind  you,  M'sieu  Olier,  you'll  never  have  cause  to  regret 
this." 

"But  hold  on,  my  man,  don't  be  in  such  a  deuce  of  a 
hurry.  Think  before  you  jump,  at  least." 

"Think  nothing!  I've  done  all  the  thinking  lately  I'll 
ever  do,  and  it  wasn't  a  pleasing  business;  so  don't  detain 
me,  M'sieu  Olier.  I'm  too  glad  to  wait  another  second." 
And  Guemadeuc,  beaming  and  joyous  for  once  in  his  life, 
strode  off,  with  long,  plunging  strides  that  swallowed  the 
ground,  swinging  his  cap  above  his  head  in  his  exuberance ; 
while  Olier,  left  planted  in  the  heather,  watched  him  out 
of  sight  with  a  clouded  face. 


CHAPTER  II 

Wakeful  for  all  that  was — the  morn  unveiling 
Aloft  the  gusty  downs,  the  gulls  at  speed 
Plumbing  the  depth,  or  waveringly  sailing 
Above  the  wrack  and  weed 

Out  where  the  black  reefs  burst  the  surge  asunder, 
Fending  the  cliff,  that  sees  the  wrath  below 
Heave  heavenward,  and,  towering,  curve  in  thunder 
Amid  the  undertow; 

Offshore;  no  billow  that  unfurls  a  feather, 
And  noonday  odors  from  the  basking  land 
Blown  through  the  cloven  gateways  of  the  heather 
That  meet  the  gleaming  sand; 

Flames  of  the  West  on  cloud-banks  fiercely  rifted 
Round  some  uprearing  headland  bold  and  free, 
Graven  by  all  the  gales  that  e'er  have  lifted 
The  fleeces  of  the  sea; 

The  pitlike  dark,  th'  impassioned  prayers  and  saintly 
For  souls  abroad,  the  life-boat  barely  inned, 
The  desperate  sirens  laboring  far  and  faintly 
To  pierce  the  wall  of  wind — 

For  oh!  the  pulses  of  my  homeward  yearning 
Move  with  thy  mighty  current  still  and  wide; 
No  swallow's  flight,  to  go  as  oft  returning, 
But  an  unswerving  tide. 

The  Gulf  Stream. — M.  M. 

A  STRONG   nor'-wester  was  whistling   its  way  through 
the  narrow,  picturesquely  gabled  streets  of  St.  Malo,  and 
whipping  the  waters  of  its  rock-girt  harbor  to  milky 
a  17 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

whiteness.  Clean  and  dustless  was  the  granite  town 
swept  that  morning  by  its  ancient  antagonist,  and  the 
motto  of  Brittany's  ermine  shield  carved  upon  the  twin 
arches  of  the  grim  Porte  St.  Vincent — "  Potius  Mori,  quam 
Foedari"1 — seemed  singularly  appropriate  to  the  present 
aspect  of  the  little  Malouin  capital.  Even  the  magnificent 
plane-trees  of  the  Place  Chateaubriand,  though  already 
festively  decked  with  delicate  tufts  of  April  green,  groaned 
and  strained  as  the  boisterous  gusts  caught  them  again 
and  again  in  the  none  too  playful  grip  of  a  last  straggler 
left  behind  by  a  long  series  of  decamping  spring  storms. 
Olier  de  Frehel,  awaiting  the  advent  of  the  plucky  little 
steamer  which  twice  a  week  shoulders  its  laborious  way 
from  Boulogne  to  Brest,  was  good-humoredly  fighting 
the  wind  inch  by  inch  down  the  almost  deserted  quay. 
He  had  come  to  St.  Malo  on  Guemadeuc's  behalf,  and, 
much  to  his  satisfaction,  had  just  obtained  from  his 
father's  old  friend,  the  Marquis  de  Tremoer,  still  lingering 
at  his  superb  winter  residence  of  the  Rue  Broussais,  the 
place  of  head  gamekeeper  which  the  Garde-Champetre 
so  greatly  coveted.  Filled  with  the  thought  of  the  good 
tidings  he  was  bringing  home,  and  walking  head  bent  the 
better  to  withstand  the  blast,  he  did  not  catch  sight  of 
the  Etoile  de  Brest  until  she  had  actually  rounded  the 
pier -head  and  was  rolling  sidewise  toward  her  wave- 
washed  moorings.  Her  commander,  a  typical  broad- 
shouldered,  deep-chested  Breton  mariner,  was  swearing 
lustily  in  his  short,  pointed  red  beard  at  the  whistle-pull 
in  his  hand,  which,  like  most  things,  alas,  above  or  below 
his  sorely  tried  decks,  was  more  or  less  the  worse  for 
weather;  but  in  another  moment,  having  successfully 
brought  his  restive  craft  alongside,  he  descended  from 

1  "To  die,  rather  than  be  defiled." 
18 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  bridge,  mechanically  tested  with  his  foot  the  tautness 
of  a  hawser  or  two,  and  faced  round  just  in  time  to  shake 
hands  with  Olier. 

"Going  back  with  us?"  he  inquired,  beamingly. 
"That's  right.  It's  a  good-fortune  to  have  a  companion 
on  that  brute  of  a  return  trip,  and,"  he  concluded,  casting 
a  look  over  his  shoulder  at  the  open  sea,  "to-day  it's 
going  to  be  no  pleasanter  than  usual." 

Olier  laughed.  "Lucky  you  haven't  any  of  your 
dainty  lady  summer- passengers,  for  they'd  scarcely  ap 
preciate  the  kind  of  dancing  we're  likely  to  get." 

"We  have  one!"  Captain  Querlescan  burst  out.  "Not 
that  she's  likely  to  incommode  us  much,"  he  added,  his 
gray-blue  eyes  twinkling  mischievously,  "so  you  needn't 
look  like  that.  Came  aboard  with  a  couple  of  servants 
and  a  couple  of  dogs  at  Boulogne,  and  made  it  plain  to 
me  from  the  first  that  she's  used  to  salt  water.  You'll 
believe  me  if  you  choose,  but  she's  stuck  to  the  deck  like 
a  limpet  ever  since,  though  we  cut  some  capers,  let  me 
tell  you,  that  would  have  settled  matters  the  wrong  way 
for  many  a  strong  man." 

"Indeed!" 

"Yes,  indeed  and  indeed!  She's  English — a  Lady 
Clanvowe " — he  pronounced  it  "Clanvo."  "And  here 
she  comes,"  he  hastily  continued.  "Pretty  figure,  eh?" 

Olier  glanced  up  indifferently,  but  could  not  but  admit 
this  to  be  the  truth.  "Yes,"  he  said,  with  curious  re 
luctance,  "but  rather  grewsomely  veiled";  and  pulling 
out  his  cigarette-case,  he  held  it  out  to  the  captain,  since 
here,  partially  sheltered  by  the  deck-house,  there  seemed 
a  latent  possibility  of  lighting  a  match. 

Meanwhile  his  sole  fellow-passenger  had  taken  up  a 
position  at  the  taffrail,  and  seemed  wholly  absorbed  in 
the  contemplation  of  a  picturesque  group  of  fishwives, 

19 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

who  with  their  large  baskets,  bright-hued  aprons  and 
kerchiefs,  and  wildly  fluttering  coiffes,  made  a  pretty 
spot  of  moving  color  near  the  landing-place.  She  herself, 
in  her  long,  silver-gray  Directoire  travelling-coat,  all  little 
collars  and  little  pockets,  that  emphasized,  if  anything, 
a  remarkable  slenderness  of  waist  and  breadth  of  shoulder, 
was  certainly  soberly  clad  enough;  and  yet  the  mere 
manner  in  which  the  folds  of  impenetrable  gray  gauze 
were  wound  about  the  small  gray  toque,  with  its  pointed 
Mercury  wings  just  peeping  above  them,  proclaimed  a  real 
elegante — well  worthy  of  notice  in  these  days  of  huge  head 
gear  and  extravagant  modes. 

Nevertheless,  Olier  and  the  captain,  puffing  at  their 
cigarettes  and  guarding  them  from  the  searching  wind 
as  best  they  could,  had  drifted  into  the  exchange  of  coast 
news,  and  were  not  looking  in  her  direction.  They  were 
both,  in  spite  of  differences  of  age  and  position,  mild 
woman-haters,  thus  giving  the  lie  direct  to  that  old 
proverb  which  proclaims  the  unavoidable  love  of  a  sailor 
for  a  lass.  Moreover,  this  particular  woman  was  a 
"stranger" — which  does  not  necessarily  mean  a  foreigner, 
but  in  old  Armorica  the  term  is  a  sweeping  and  somewhat 
contemptuous  one  including  all  non-Bretons,  who  as 
such  are  utterly  devoid  of  interest  to  the  natives. 

"I'll  see  you  later.  Come  on  the  bridge  as  soon  as 
we  have  cleared  the  channel.  We  are  starting  at  once," 
the  captain  said  at  last,  as  a  final  bag  of  mail  was  thrown 
a- top  of  a  pile  of  crates;  and,  hurrying  off,  he  left  Olier 
at  liberty  to  watch  a  solitary  sand-cart  crunch  and  rumble 
up  the  quay  while  the  gang-plank  was  being  hauled  in. 

Slowly  and  cautiously  the  little  steamer  described  a 
half -circle,  and,  turning  her  blunt  nose  to  the  short  foam- 
topped  seas,  began  at  once  to  roll  and  lift  in  her  most 
disconcerting  way.  Even  Olier  soon  had  his  work  cut 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

out  to  keep  a  dignified  attitude,  well  seasoned  though 
he  was,  and  leaning  as  he  did  against  the  leeward  wall  of 
the  deck-house,  where,  quite  unconscious  of  his  lack  of 
gallantry,  he  fell  to  wondering  how  much  it  would  take 
of  this  sort  of  thing  to  drive  any  one  but  the  crew  and 
himself  below.  His  unkindly  hopes  were  doomed,  how 
ever,  to  be  ruthlessly  dashed,  for  the  ya wings  and  surg- 
ings  and  quivering  swoops  of  the  Etoile  de  Brest  apparent 
ly  had  not  the  slightest  effect  upon  the  gray-clad  little 
etrangere,  firmly  planted  on  her  very  small  feet — the  reck 
less  wind,  tossing  back  a  frou-frou  of  dainty  petticoats, 
had  disclosed  to  him  that  they  were  truly  exceeding  small 
and  admirably  shod — and  swaying  as  instinctively  and 
easily  with  every  disorderly  motion  of  the  ship  as  one 
to  the  manner  born. 

St.  Malo  was  falling  behind  at  a  great  rate ;  in  a  few  more 
moments  the  capricious  yellow  line  of  shore,  slipping  in 
and  out  among  the  embattled  waves,  like  the  links  of  a 
fabulous  golden  chain  between  the  folds  of  some  opulent 
green-and- white  brocade,  would  also  have  melted  away 
— as  had  already  the  vague  outline  of  his  splendid  name 
sake,  Cape  Frehel — in  the  fitfully  sun-shot  lilac  vapors,  but 
still  Olier  nursed  the  unexplainable  irritation  aroused 
by  the  self-possession  and  nonchalance  of  that  provoking 
little  gray  silhouette,  so  visibly  at  home  there,  and  as 
undisturbed  by  the  disgraceful  capers  of  the  "Star  of 
Brest"  as  the  captain  himself.  Her  whole  attire,  too, 
seemed  planned  for  just  such  work — the  tight-drawn  veil 
pinned  down  so  snugly  as  to  offer  no  loophole  to  the 
wind;  the  exquisitely  fitting  coat,  practical  and  business 
like,  in  spite  of  its  delicacy  of  tint,  not  a  ribbon  or  bit  of 
lace  loose  anywhere;  no  jingling  bracelets  or  chatelaine; 
just  from  head  to  foot  a  sheath  of  soft,  uniform  cloud-gray 
that  seemed  painted  on,  almost.  An  unusual  type  of 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

woman,  indeed,  but  probably  very  unprepossessing  of 
countenance,  or  else  why  this  thick  gauze  mask? 

After  a  while,  utterly  disgusted,  Olier  climbed  to  the 
bridge,  where,  square  and  immovable  in  his  gleaming 
oilskins,  stood  his  friend  Querlescan,  every  minute  or  so 
wiping  the  salt  spray  from  his  eyes  with  an  enormous 
blue  silk  handkerchief.  The  weather,  though  singularly 
unfavorable,  was  not  of  a  nature,  as  yet,  to  trouble  him 
much;  unfavorable  conditions  were  his  daily  portion, 
and  he  had  long  since  grown  accustomed  to  them;  still, 
the  horizon  presented  some  anxious  possibilities,  and,  with 
out  troubling  to  speak,  he  indicated  to  his  visitor  by  an 
expressive  gesture  the  great  bank  of  congested  gloom 
shouldering  its  way  slowly  upward. 

"Yes,"  nodded  Olier,  "it's  going  to  get  dirtier  by-and- 
by."  And  with  a  short  laugh  he  added:  "Probably  suf 
ficiently  so  to  drive  even  your  obdurate  passenger  below, 
where  she  belongs." 

"I  wouldn't  bet  on  that,"  the  red-bearded  skipper 
retorted.  "She  may  be  harder  to  beat  than  you  think. 
A  woman  who  can  stand  what's  going  on  now  is  out  of  the 
ordinary.  Still,  I  don't  propose  to  let  her  have  her  head 
much  longer.  I'd  be  in  a  nice  mess  if  she  got  herself 
washed  overboard." 

At  that  very  instant  a  hissing  wave-top  slashed  diago 
nally  up  and  flooded  heavily  across  the  full  breadth  of  the 
deck,  to  cascade  overside  again.  A  swift  bound  back 
ward  saved  Lady  Clanvowe  from  a  complete  drenching, 
but  the  captain,  though  amazed  at  her  prowess,  and  per 
haps  even  filled  with  dawning  admiration,  considered 
that  the  time  had  come  to  call  a  halt. 

"Quartermaster!"  he  roared,  in  his  roughest  voice,  to 
the  man  standing  within  a  yard  of  him,  "tumble  down 
and  tell  the  lady  to  leave  the  deck!  Say  there  is  danger!" 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Leaning  against  the  bridge-rail,  Olier  followed  the  smart- 
looking  sailor  with  amused  eyes,  saw  him  salute  and 
deliver  his  message,  and  at  that  short  distance  plainly 
read  the  surprise  caused  by  its  reception,  though  he  could 
not  hear  a  word  of  what  was  passing  in  that  ceaseless  din 
of  wind  and  sea. 

"He  doesn't  seem  to  persuade  her,"  he  remarked, 
mockingly,  to  his  companion.  "You  were  right,  and  now 
probably  you'll  have  to  remove  her  by  force."  He  was 
overjoyed  to  observe  that  Querlescan's  countenance,  al 
ready  sufficiently  rubicund,  was  rapidly  taking  on  a  danger 
ously  apoplectic  hue.  Not  obey  orders!  ...  a  passenger! 
...  a  woman!  Evidently  the  next  few  moments  might 
be  as  pregnant  of  happenings  as  the  threatening  sky. 

"What's  up,  Quartermaster?"  Thus  the  captain  in 
the  very  surliest  of  accents  to  his  returning  estafette, 
who  with  impassive  features,  but  suspiciously  twinkling 
eyes,  had  just  swung  himself  back  upon  the  bridge. 

' '  The  lady  refuses  to  go  below,  mon  Commandant. ' '  The 
quartermaster,  an  old  man-o-war's  man,  had  been  in  the 
service  under  his  present  captain,  and  always  addressed 
him  with  quarter-deck  punctilio  and  etiquette,  hand  raised 
to  cap,  eyes  fixed. 

"Refuses  to  go  below?  What  the  hell  does  that  mean, 
Quartermaster  ?" 

"I  don't  know,  mon  Commandant,  and  she's  laughing 
to  split  her  sides." 

"What  for?"  This  with  rapidly  increasing  savageness, 
and  a  side-long  glance  at  Olier  which  signally  failed  to 
check  that  irreverent  personage's  obtrusive  delight;  for, 
indeed,  the  situation  was  turning  out  more  comically 
than  he  had  dared  to  hope. 

"Well,  mon  Commandant,  I  think  it's  the  idea  that  the 
deck's  unsafe  for  her." 

23 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"But  certainly,  .  .  .  that  is  precisely  what  made  me 
laugh." 

The  three  men,  as  if  on  one  pivot,  turned  to  confront 
the  possessor  of  that  soft  contralto  voice,  who  might 
have  emerged  from  a  surprise  box,  so  suddenly  and  un 
expectedly  had  she  made  her  appearance.  The  captain 
stared  in  speechless  astonishment.  In  such  weather  skirts 
should  have  been  an  insuperable  obstacle  to  the  ascent 
of  an  almost  perpendicular  bridge-ladder,  but  here  she 
stood  before  him  as  though  she  had  just  done  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Commandant,"  she  said,  serenely, 
"  for  storming  your  position,  after  disobeying  your  orders; 
but  the  fact  is  I  dislike  to  go  below.  Besides,  I  run  no 
danger  whatever.  I  am,  if  you  must  know  it,  a  bit  of  a 
sailor,  and  hold  a  master's  certificate,  which  may  explain 
to  you  how  I  come  to  be  more  at  home  on  deck  than  in 
the  saloon." 

One  hand  holding  the  bridge-rail  in  a  fashion  visibly 
practised  and  familiar,  she  waited  for  his  answer;  and 
Olier  waited,  too,  but  with  less  patience,  for  at  last  his 
interest  was  fully  roused.  His  ear  had  just  been  caressed 
by  that  pure,  eighteenth-century  French,  clear  and  level- 
toned,  which  nowadays,  alas,  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  France  is  only  to  be  heard  where  a  few  scat 
tered  chateaux  preserve  the  traditions  of  former  days — a 
language  not  whined  through  the  nose  or  gabbled  from  the 
lips  or  palate,  but  delivered  with  an  open  mouth,  as  high 
bred  Anglo-Saxons  speak  their  own  native  tongue.  Curious 
that  an  Englishwoman  should  speak  French  like  that! 

Meanwhile  the  nonplussed  captain  was  saying:  "Even 
if  you  run  no  personal  danger,  madame,  you  cannot  avoid 
being  wet  through  on  deck,  and  unless  you  prefer  to 
remain  here  with  us — 

24 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

The  scarcely  veiled  sarcasm  passed  unrebuked,  and  the 
offer  was  at  once  accepted  with  a  simplicity  that  staggered 
Captain  Querlescan. 

"Yes,  of  course  you  are  quite  right,  and  thank  you 
very  much,  Commandant;  but  I  stay  only  on  condition 
that  I  shall  not  be  in  your  way.  I  hate  women  who  get 
in  the  way  of  men's  work  or  sport  and  expect  to  be 
waited  upon." 

Caught  in  his  own  net,  Captain  Querlescan  winced. 
"Your  coat,  madame,  is  already  soaked  with  spray,"  he 
argued  with  feeble  doggedness,  and,  as  if  every  word  were 
being  windlassed  out  of  him,  "You  will  catch  your  death 
of  cold!"  This  was  greeted  with  a  laugh  which  had  such 
a  ring  in  it  that  it  made  the  ungracious  mariner  suddenly 
change  his  mind  and  attitude — he  could  not  have  told  why, 
but  so,  nevertheless,  it  was  —  and,  though  she  had  just 
dared  him  to  his  face  and  made  him  undeniably  ridiculous, 
from  that  instant  he  liked  her. 

"Will  you  let  me  send  for  some  oilskins?"  he  asked,  in 
markedly  altered  tones. 

"You  can  send  for  mine,"  she  readily  acquiesced. 
"Grafton  —  that's  my  servant  —  will  give  them  to  the 
quartermaster,  if  you  don't  mind  his  going  after  them. 
But  here  am  I  already  giving  trouble  ...  so  as  soon  as  I 
get  my  storm -rig  I'll  subside  completely." 

"Subside  completely!"  Olier  mentally  commented. 
"She  does  not  give  the  impression  of  belonging  to  the 
sort  that  can  ever  quite  do  that,  or  pass  unperceived 
either."  And  he  glanced  at  her  beneath  his  eyelashes, 
carefully  refraining,  however,  from  letting  his  stealthy 
gaze  rest  upon  the  captain,  who  must,  he  thought,  have 
by  now  reached  the  bursting-point.  How  complete  was 
the  volte-face  of  this  usually  brusque  and  intolerant 
officer  he  did  not  even  suspect,  until  he  beheld  him 

25 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

actually  in  the  act  of  helping  his  passagcre  into  the 
"  storm-rig,"  which  in  itself  was  a  corroboration  of  every 
word  she  had  uttered,  for  it  proved  to  be  by  no  means  the 
absurd  makeshift  of  the  common  run  of  yachtswomen, 
but  a  hooded  garment,  uncompromisingly  serviceable, 
practical,  and  much  weather-stained. 

Indeed,  even  apart  from  this,  Lady  Clanvowe's  attitude 
left  no  possible  doubt  that  she  mostly  meant  what  she 
said,  for  in  another  moment  she  had  retreated  to  the 
farthest  end  of  the  bridge,  where  she  enfolded  herself  in 
deepest  silence,  half  turning  her  back  upon  the  others 
in  a  way  so  expressive  of  a  desire  to  mind  her  own  busi 
ness  that  Olier  felt  his  first  disapprobation  disappearing 
by  leaps  and  bounds. 

During  the  last  hour  the  half-gale  had  considerably 
freshened.  The  air  was  now  full  of  spindrift,  and  the 
maltreated  steamer,  buffeted  by  savage  cross-waves, 
labored  hard.  Twice  Captain  Querlescan  took  a  step  in 
the  direction  of  the  hooded  figure  silhouetted  against 
those  swinging  seas,  and  twice,  greatly  to  Olier's  amuse 
ment,  returned  to  his  post  with  a  smothered  imprecation 
that  broke  at  last  into  a  torrent  of  low -breathed  pro 
fanity. 

"What  are  you  bothering  about?"  the  latter  asked, 
imperturbably.  "She's  giving  you  no  trouble.  Why 
don't  you  leave  her  alone?" 

"Huh!  No  trouble?  D'  you  think  I  feel  at  my  ease 
here,  forced  to  act  like  a  boor  on  my  own  decks?" 

"She  does  not  expect  you  to  dance  attendance  upon 
her — that  seems  evident." 

"I  know;  but  ordinary  politeness  demands  that  I 
should  see  to  her  comfort,  and  how  am  I  to  go  about  it 
with  such  a  stubborn  piece  of  goods?" 

"Couldn't  you  induce  her  to  take  some  refreshment 

26 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

or  other  ?  That  would  oblige  her  to  go  below,  you  see, 
.  .  .  and  since  you're  so  anxious  to  do  that  .  .  .  !" 

"Nom  d'un  chien!  Why  didn't  I  think  of  it  before? 
I'll  give  up  the  bridge  to  Goarec,  although  I  had  told  him 
that  I'd  keep  it  all  the  way  to  Brest."  And,  whispering 
a  command  to  his  quartermaster,  the  much  -  relieved 
mariner  moved  hesitatingly  toward  Lady  Clanvowe. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  almost  imploringly,  "won't  you 
come  and  have  a  cup  of  coffee  and  some  biscuits?  You 
have  been  standing  here  in  the  cold  for  hours,  and  ..." 
he  concluded,  desperately,  "I  am  getting  really  anxious!" 

"My  dear  Commandant,'"  she  cried,  with  one  of  her 
contagious  little  laughs,  "I  am  so  sorry  to  have  worried 
you.  Of  course  I'll  come;  you  must  not  imagine  that  my 
dislike  of  the  'tween  decks  goes  to  the  length  of  starving 
myself."  And,  passing  in  front  of  him,  she  swung  herself 
down  the  ladder  before  Olier,  who  was  standing  close  to 
it,  had  time  to  offer  help,  seized  an  opportune  righting 
of  the  vessel  to  run  across  the  deck,  and  reached  the 
companion-way. 

"Well  done!"  the  naval  officer  said  aloud,  in  spite  of 
himself.  "Jove,  but  that's  a  clever  little  woman!"  And, 
much  puzzled  and  amused,  he  followed  the  captain,  who 
had  momentarily  relinquished  all  responsibility  to  his 
second,  through  the  fringe  of  a  retiring  wave-crest  along 
a  once  more  dizzily  slanting  deck. 

The  lamentable  banality  of  marine  dining-rooms  was 
on  the  Etoile  de  Brest  greatly  diminished  by  the  faded 
condition  of  its  fittings  and  furniture.  The  once  in 
flammatory  red  and  gold  had  toned  down  with  years  to  a 
pleasant  shade  of  tawny  brown,  and  on  the  long  table 
great  branches  of  pink-and- white  May — flung  there  by 
the  second  officer,  who,  being  a  newly  married  man,  had 
bought  them  at  St.  Malo  for  his  bride,  and  forgotten  all 

27 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

about  them  immediately — gave  a  touch  of  spring  and  youth 
to  the  whole  place.  The  steward  was  picking  an  armful 
of  them  from  the  carpet,  where  they  had  been  thrown 
by  the  continuous  pitching  and  rolling,  when  the  two 
men  entered ;  while  in  front  of  one  of  the  sadly  tarnished 
mirrors  above  the  circular  divan  stood  Lady  Clanvowe, 
with  uplifted  hands,  detaching  one  by  one  the  long  gold 
pins  holding  her  veil  in  position.  From  the  opposite  side 
of  the  saloon  Olier  glanced  with  quick  curiosity  in  the 
mirror,  to  try  and  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  the  features 
so  carefully  concealed  until  now ;  but  the  damp  gauze  was 
troublesome,  and  it  was  only  after  several  impatient  little 
pulls  and  wrenches  that  Lady  Clanvowe  finally  dragged  it 
upward  from  an  oval  face,  still  faintly  flushed  to  shell- 
pink  tints  by  the  wind,  large,  black-fringed,  dark-blue 
eyes,  a  short,  imperious  little  nose,  and  a  mouth  of  ex 
quisite  perfection  and  loveliness.  Another  quick  tug, 
and  both  hat  and  veil  came  off  together  from  a  glorious 
mass  of  soft,  silky  hair,  piled  up  in  a  fashion  suggesting 
Madame  de  Lamballe — and,  still  further  to  enhance  the 
resemblance,  snow  white  and  sparkling  as  if  powdered 
all  over  with  fine  diamond-dust. 

Involuntarily  Olier  drew  a  deep  breath,  startled  by  the 
beauty  and  pastel-like  delicacy  of  that  mirror-vision,  and 
at  that  instant  Lady  Clanvowe  turned  round,  and,  with  a 
noticeable  lack  of  the  clumsiness  generally  engendered  by 
the  erratic  motions  of  a  storm-tossed  boat,  crossed  over 
to  the  table  where  Captain  Querlescan  was  deftly  slipping 
cups  and  plates  in  and  out  of  the  fiddles. 

Raising  his  eyes  at  her  approach,  he  too  gave  a  start 
of  surprise  as  he  caught  sight  of  her  standing  in  the 
full  light  of  the  port -holes,  slim  and  graceful  and  smil 
ing. 

"Voila!"  she  said,  seating  herself  on  one  of  the  swivel 

28 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

chairs  and  beginning  to  draw  off  her  gloves.  "I'm  quite 
ready  for  your  coffee,  Commandant." 

"I  trust  it  will  not  be  too  muddy.  We  are  still  dis 
tressingly  unprepared  for  distinguished  travellers,  and  ..." 

"It  smells  deliciously,"  she  interrupted,  turning  one 
damp  glove  clean  inside  out,  after  vainly  endeavoring  to 
remove  it  in  the  ordinary  fashion.  Her  hands,  like  her 
feet,  were  singularly  small,  and  there  was  a  vivid  sparkle 
of  many  diamonds  and  sapphires  as  she  dried  them  on 
her  tiny  handkerchief. 

Olier  had  been  waiting  for  the  captain  to  introduce  him, 
but,  finding  that  the  worthy  skipper  was  forgetting  all 
about  this  simple  ceremony,  here  put  in  his  word: 

"Will  you  present  me  to  Lady  Clanvowe,  Querlescan?" 
he  said,  a  little  stiffly. 

Red  as  a  tomato,  the  captain  rose  hastily:  "The 
Comte  de  Frehel — a  Breton  of  the  Bretons." 

"Higher  praise  no  man  can  desire,"  she  said,  frankly 
holding  out  her  hand.  "I  am  a  profound  admirer  of 
Brittany,  past  and  present.  But  let  me  see  .  .  .  de  Frehel 
...  it  must  be  your  father  whom  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  many  years  ago.  You  reminded  me  of  him  from 
the  first." 

"Many  years  ago,  madame?"  The  incredulous  intona 
tion  of  the  words  was  a  spontaneous  compliment  which 
made  Lady  Clanvowe  smile  in  a  pleased  little  way. 

' '  Certainly.  It  is  quite  eighteen  years  since  my  husband 
and  I  left  Vienna,  where  he,  the  Comte  de  Frehel  I  mean, 
was  then  French  Ambassador." 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  quick,  questioning  glance. 
Was  she  joking?  Surely  she  could  not,  in  spite  of  her 
silver  locks,  be  over  thirty. 

"My  father  was  at  Vienna  about  the  time  you  mention, 
madame;  but  surely  ..."  Olier  paused,  embarrassed,  and, 

29 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

as  if  guessing  his  thoughts,  she  lightly  touched  her  gra 
cious  coiffure: 

"Genuinely  white,"  she  laughed.  "Absolutely  gen 
uine." 

"A  freak  of  nature,"  the  captain  interposed.  "I  have 
a  cousin  who  was  gray  at  twenty." 

"Well,  so  was  I, ...  a  little  on  the  temples,"  she  quietly 
continued,  helping  herself  to  a  biscuit.  "But  I  like  it 
better  now,  .  .  .  it's  more  complete." 

She  spoke  so  naturally  that  any  flattering  remark  would 
have  seemed  almost  a  piece  of  rudeness.  Even  plain- 
spoken  Querlescan  saw  this,  and  with  unusual  tact  pro 
ceeded  to  change  the  subject. 

"The  season  is  early  for  visitors  to  our  little  country," 
he  remarked,  balancing  his  cup  deftly  half-way  between 
the  table  and  his  mouth.  "You  are  not  going  to  make  a 
long  stay  in  Brittany,  are  you,  Miladi?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  think  it  probable.  You  see,  the 
wife  of  a  diplomat  is  something  of  a  slave ;  but  Sir  Hubert 
having  been  sent  on  a  mission  to  Tibet,  where  it  was 
difficult  for  me  to  accompany  him,  I  am  free  to  put  into 
execution  a  long-cherished  plan,  which  is  to  spend  a  whole 
summer  in  Brittany." 

"If  you  have  never  been  here  before,"  the  captain  said, 
with  a  frown,  "it's  all  right;  but  otherwise  you  will  be 
hurt,  I  am  sure,  to  see  it  becoming  so  changed." 

Olier  was  also  frowning,  but  at  his  indiscreet  friend. 
He  found  it  utterly  useless  to  abuse  their  cherished  coun 
try  before  a  stranger;  but  not  so  the  now  fully  aroused 
mariner,  who  between  mouthfuls  embarked  upon  a  thor 
ough  expose'  of  the  present  situation. 

"And,"  he  at  last  concluded,  "they  have  succeeded  in 
transforming  this  classic  little  corner  of  the  world  into  a 
place  of  virulent  hatreds  and  suspicions,  where  brother 

3° 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

will  soon  be  throttling  brother,  and  father  denouncing 
son." 

Lady  Clanvowe  had  listened  in  absorbed  silence,  her 
dark-blue  eyes  darkened  still  more  by  obviously  sincere 
interest,  and  Olier,  watching  her,  wondered  much.  What 
could  all  this  matter  to  her,  an  English  great  lady,  with  a 
mere  poetical  fad  for  the  old  Land  of  Legend  which  was 
so  dear  to  him  ?  Pose  ?  No,  even  strong  prejudice  could 
not  make  a  keen  observer  read  her  grave,  clever  expres 
sion  thus;  and  suddenly  seized  once  more  with  the  irri 
tation  she  had  earlier  aroused  in  him,  he  said,  almost 
roughly: 

"How  can  all  these  nauseating  details  de  menage  amuse 
Lady  Clanvowe?" 

She  turned  quickly,  and  gave  him  a  singularly  pene 
trating  look. 

"Amuse?"  she  said.  "You  mean  'interest,'  Monsieur 
de  Frehel.  But  I  assure  you  that  these  details  de  menage, 
as  you  call  them,  do  even  more  than  that." 


CHAPTER  III 

A  flush  of  silver  on  the  sea-line  growing; 
A  point,  an  edge,  a  candent  arc;  the  shade 
Of  cloud  low-gathered  rims  with  pearl,  and,  glowing, 
Lengthens  the  pale  moonglade. 

All  the  wide  Night  awakes,  and  breathless  waiting 
Knoweth  fulfilment  in  that  mystic  fire, 
A  soul  of  beauty,  thrilling,  palpitating 
As  the  Cyllenean  lyre. 

Hearken  the  surf-song — herald  waves  apprising 
The  caverned  rocks  ashore,  and  mark,  oh,  mark 
How  the  fleet  footprints  of  the  wind  arising 
Flash  in  the  clearing  dark, 

Hasting  the  miracle  abroad  to  blazon; 
And  through  the  thresh  of  waters,  low,  serene, 
Moveth  soft-shod  that  shaking  diapason, 
Circleth  that  treble  keen! 

How  wild  its  fluting!     'Tis  a  wondrous  leaven 
To  shape  Night's  harmonies,  that  near  and  far 
Orb  in  its  crystal  as  the  lights  of  Heaven 
Run  backward  to  a  star. 

Unto  one  call  of  Power  these  assemble, 
Choiring  in  unison  to  the  hollow  sky, 
And  all  their  lovely  voices  cry  and  tremble 
Until  the  Night  doth  die. 

So  to  a  waiting  dusk,  illuming,  winning, 
Until  the  storied  Morn  that  is  to  be, 
You  came,  in  light  and  melody  beginning 
Your  gentle  rule  in  me. 

Moonrise. — M.  M. 

32 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

THE  long  stretch  of  rough  shingle  beneath  Fort  Roz- 
kavel  was  almost  entirely  covered  by  fleecy  surf,  shining 
white  in  the  fitful  rays  of  a  round-faced  moon  that  was 
busy  playing  hide-and-seek  with  a  flock  of  black  clouds. 
As  it  nearly  always  is  there,  the  wind  was  strong,  and  the 
hollow  clamor  of  the  sea,  worrying  the  ledges  along  low- 
water  mark,  betrayed  the  sudden  plunge  to  great  depths 
off  that  portion  of  the  shore.  A  spot  of  tragic  loneliness 
without  one  break  in  the  monotony  of  water  and  stone, 
save  the  low,  massive  brow  of  the  Fort,  just  now  scarce 
ly  distinguishable  from  the  masses  of  surrounding  rock 
either  in  form  or  color,  and  without  a  single  point  of 
light  showing  anywhere  within  its  looming  bulk. 

Splashing  moodily  along  the  soupy  gravel,  Olier  de 
Frehel,  on  his  way  home  from  one  of  the  interminable 
walks  he  often  took  after  his  solitary  dinner  to  try  and 
tire  himself  out,  was  industriously  attempting  to  think 
of  nothing  at  all,  when,  just  as  he  came  abreast  of  the 
Fort  talus,  he  was  checked  in  his  stride  by  a  sudden  flood 
of  melody,  marvellously  attuned  to  the  obligato  of  wind 
and  waves,  gliding  higher  and  higher,  and  soaring  pierc 
ingly  sweet  until  it  seemed  to  stab  the  dark  heavens 
above.  For  a  moment  he  scarcely  breathed,  tingling 
from  head  to  foot  with  a  never-felt  emotion,  for  at  that 
place  and  hour  there  really  was  something  nerve-shaking 
in  that  rarest  music  of  all,  the  utterance  of  a  surpassing 
ly  well-played  violin.  So  completely  entranced  was  he 
that  at  first  he  did  not  even  wonder  whence  it  came — 
from  the  earth,  the  water,  or  the  sky — what  mattered? 
The  very  essence  of  those  liquid  notes  was  strange  to 
him;  he  had  never  heard  the  like  before,  though  that  did 
not  occur  to  him  until  afterward,  for  the  night  had  found 
a  soul  and  was  made  anew — the  fresh  salt  breeze,  the 
ghostly  surf,  the  glittering  bridge  swung  gently  across 
3  33 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  straining  backs  of  the  breakers  with  every  re-emer 
gence  of  the  moon,  were  now  all  as  living,  breathing  things 
that  sang  together  with  beautiful  voices,  each  a  separate 
part,  and  yet  all  in  some  wonderful  way  shaping  into  that 
exquisite  central  harmony,  moulded  and  drawn  into  it 
as  rays  run  backward  to  a  star.  Very  gradually  Olier 
began  to  realize  what  his  inner  mind  had  immediately 
and  instinctively  acknowledged  —  that  whoever  played 
that  violin  possessed  a  master -hand.  None  but  a  great 
artist  could  win  from  it  those  superhuman  echoes  of 
some  unknown  Paradise,  and  he  stood  absolutely  mo 
tionless,  straining  every  nerve  to  follow  the  delicious 
shading  of  every  perfect  phrase,  until  with  one  soft,  fine 
spun  note — a  lessening  thread  of  moonbeam  that  died 
and  lost  itself  in  the  sobbing  of  the  waves — it  all  ended, 
leaving  him  dazed  and  amazed,  uncertain  whether  he 
had  not  been  dreaming. 

For  some  time  he  remained  rooted  to  the  ground,  vainly 
endeavoring  to  solve  the  puzzle,  and  gazing  helplessly 
around  him,  from  the  heaving  whiteness  of  the  sea  to 
the  deserted  shore,  until  all  at  once  the  words  of  Gue"ma- 
deuc  flashed  back  to  his  mind.  He  had  claimed  that  the 
Fort  would  shortly  be  inhabited,  but  Olier  raised  search 
ing  eyes  to  the  sombre  parapet  without  discovering  the 
least  bit  of  corroborative  evidence.  Then,  fired  with  a 
sudden  determination,  he  set  off  at  a  run,  and,  escalading 
the  talus  in  three  bounds,  brought  up  at  the  foot  of  the 
walls. 

These  were  discouraging,  too;  their  regularly  spaced 
loopholes,  wherein  once  had  lurked  the  grim  muzzles  of 
guns,  were  much  too  far  above  his  head  to  be  looked 
through,  and  with  a  nautical  oath  of  great  force  and 
power  he  ran  on  to  the  solid  iron  doors  which  guarded 
the  one  entrance,  only  to  find  them  hermetically  closed. 

34 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"I  dreamed  it  all,  then!"  he  exclaimed,  wrathfully. 
"Or  else  there  must  be  musical  Farfadets  in  possession 
of  Rozkavel."  And,  turning  on  his  heel,  he  regained 
the  beach  in  an  absurdly  angry  mood.  Fortunately,  he 
knew  every  inch  of  the  way,  for  just  then  the  moon 
ducked  derisively  behind  a  cloud,  leaving  him  in  total 
darkness;  and,  as  the  rising  tide  made  it  expedient  for 
him  to  hurry,  he  lost  no  time  in  climbing  back  to  the 
lande.  Before  setting  off  across  the  heather,  he  once 
more  turned  mechanically  to  peer  back  at  the  blotch  of 
intenser  blackness  he  knew  to  be  the  Fort,  and  gave  a 
gasp  of  surprise,  for  at  his  present  elevation  he  was  on  a 
level  with  the  windows  of  the  guard-room,  and  he  dis 
tinctly  saw  a  faint,  rosy  gleam  issuing  from  them.  With 
a  shamefaced  sense  of  relief,  he  lingered  there,  trying 
to  determine  the  nature  of  this  peculiar  illumination, 
and,  finally  convinced  that  it  represented  the  light  of 
shaded  lamps  sifted  through  tinted  curtains,  he  resumed 
his  lonely  road,  vexing  his  brain  with  one  supposition 
after  another  as  to  who  the  wonderful  musician  might 
be,  who  had  made  the  lonely  night  live  and  pulsate 
and  throb  with  such  indescribable  harmony?  Indeed, 
in  his  present  solitary  life  the  incident  was  assuming  the 
proportions  of  an  event,  and  immediately  on  reaching 
home  he  sent  for  his  aged  gardener,  Hanvec,  whom  he 
knew  would  still  be  dozing  over  the  kitchen  fire. 

Hanvec  was  a  notorious  gossip,  inordinately  proud  of 
his  sobriquet  of  Skrid-pendeziek,  which  in  Breton  means 
newspaper,  or,  textually,  "relation  day  by  day  of  what 
happens,  has  happened,  or  will  happen" — a  well-merited 
one,  moreover;  for  what  he  did  not  manage  to  find  out 
for  miles  around  Kremarze*  was  not  worth  inquiring  into. 
The  peculiar  picturesqueness  of  his  statements  invariably 
delighted  Olier,  usually  the  most  incurious  of  men,  and, 

35 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

while  drying  his  wet  boots  at  a  crackling  fagot-blaze  that 
lent  fantastic  animation  to  the  figures  on  the  ancient 
tapestries  of  the  hall,  he  smiled  a  smile  of  amused  an 
ticipation. 

Carrying  his  red  woollen  cap  in  one  hand  and  his  heavy 
sabots  in  the  other,  Hanvec  made  his  appearance  almost 
at  once,  every  separate  wrinkle  of  his  brown  face  alert 
with  curiosity. 

" Avance  a  I'ordre,  I'Ancien!"  Olier  said,  in  a  slightly 
raised  voice,  for  Hanvec  had  lately  become  a  trifle  hard 
of  hearing.  "Avance  a  I'ordre." 

"Present,  M'sieu  VComte!"  the  old  man  retorted, 
straightening  his  back  and  touching  his  white  forelock. 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  tenants  of  Rozkavel?" 

A  sharp  gleam  brightened  the  faded  blue  eyes  of  the 
ambulatory  gazette  of  Kremarze",  and  a  malicious  smile 
crinkled  his  lips. 

"Tenant — not  tenants,  M'sieu  1'Comte,"  he  corrected, 
depositing  his  sabots  on  the  carpet  and  resting  his  hands 
on  his  hips  in  an  easy  conversational  way. 

"Tenant,  eh?"  Olier  questioned.     "What  is  he  like?" 

For  the  second  time  Hanvec  deprecatingly  offered  an 
amendment:  "Not  he  ...  she  .  .  .  it's  a  she." 

"A  she?  Alone  in  that  God -forsaken  hole?  Non 
sense!" 

"No  nonsense,  M'sieu  1'Comte — the  truth;  but  there 
are  servants  ...  a  lot  of  good-for-nothings  who  speak  a 
villainous  lingo,  and  look  as  supple  as  if  they'd  swallowed 
a  marline-spike  apiece!" 

"Where  do  they  hail  from,  do  you  think?" 

"From  no  Christian  land  .  .  .  that's  sure." 

"And  the  ...  the  lady;  what  of  her?" 

"I  couldn't  rightly  say,  M'sieu  1'Comte.  I've  only 
seen  her  at  long  range,  though  I  did  try  to  pull  up  closer; 

36 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

but  she's  not  easy  to  approach — one  minute  here,  the 
other  there,  dancing  on  the  outermost  points  of  the  rocks, 
running  up  the  cliffs  as  a  goat  would;  my  old  legs  can't 
follow  such  a  pace." 

"Can  it  be  she  who  plays  the  violin  like  an  angel?" 
Olier  asked,  more  to  himself  than  to  his  worthy  news 
monger;  but  doubtless  the  latter  was  not  quite  as  deaf 
as  he  pretended,  for  he  instantly  answered  the  comment 
as  if  it  had  been  addressed  to  him. 

"Or  a  devil!"  he  grumbled.  "I  heard  her  crin-crin 
one  night,  and  it  made  my  blood  run  cold.  It's  pagan 
music,  that's  what  it  is." 

"Crin-crin  .  .  .  pagan  music!"  Olier  exclaimed,  shrug 
ging  his  shoulders  at  such  vandalism.  "I've  heard  the 
best,  but  never  anything  to  compare  with  that  touch." 

"Maybe,  maybe,  M'sieu  1'Comte,  but  is  there  any 
reason  in  a  woman  locking  herself  in  a  dismantled  fort 
to  play  for  the  fishes  and  the  gulls  when  everybody  else 
is  asleep?  It's  not  canny  .  .  .  You  can  laugh  your  fill, 
M'sieu  I'Comte,  it's  not  canny,  nor  lucky,  either!"  Han- 
vec  indignantly  protested. 

"Bosh!"  Olier  interrupted.  "But  look  here,  VAncien, 
lucky  or  unlucky,  Christian  or  heathen,  this  curious  per 
son  and  her  following  can't  live  solely  on  music.  Where 
do  they  get  their  provisions,  their  fuel,  and  the  rest? 
You  know  very  well  that  all  they  can  buy  around  here 
is  bread  and  onions,  and  if,  as  you  infer,  neither  mistress 
nor  servants  speak  either  French  or  Breton,  how  do  they 
manage?" 

"And  what  about  the  yacht,  M'sieu  I'Comte?  Doesn't 
it  bring  them  all  they  want?" 

"The  yacht!     Oh,  there's  a  yacht,  is  there?" 

"Why,  yes,  there  is,  and  a  choice  one,  too,  trim  as  a 
battle-ship,  with  its  brass-work  shining  enough  to  dazzle 

37 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  eye,  and  painted  as  white  as  the  heart  of  an  oyster- 
shell." 

"Where  in  the  world  does  it  anchor?  There's  no  safe 
place  about  Rozkavel." 

"  Nobody  knows  that,  M'sieu  1'Comte.  It  comes  and 
goes  unbeknown,  just  like  its  owner,  and  none's  the 
wiser." 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  VAncien!"  Olier  exclaimed  at  this 
point,  half  rising  from  his  deep  chair.  "Did  you  ever 
get  near  enough  to  her  to  see  what  color  her  hair  is?" 

"Name  of  a  one-eyed  lobster,  M'sieu  Olier!"  the  old 
man  remonstrated,  "what's  the  color  of  her  hair  got  to 
do  with  it?  You've  not  stepped  on  a  tuft  of  losing-grass, 
have  you,  M'sieu  Olier,  to-night  on  the  landef  You 
seem  all  astray,  as  it  were." 

"Never  you  mind  what  I  seem;  answer  me." 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,  it's  soon  done,"  Hanvec  said,  more 
quietly.  "I've  never  seen  the  color  of  her  hair,  M'sieu 
TComte,  nor  want  to.  I'm  not  at  the  age  when  one  risks 
one's  neck  for  such  trifles!" — this  in  an  offended  tone. 

"You're  an  old  fool,  VAncien.  ...  I  don't  care  a  rush 
about  her  hair,  either.  All  I  wanted  to  find  out  was 
whether  by  any  chance  it  happens  to  be  white — snow- 
white,  you  understand." 

"White  .  .  .  snow-white!"  Hanvec  echoed,  falling  back 
a  little.  "Sainte  Vierge  de  La  Palude!  .  .  .  You  are  not 
going  mad,  Our  Gentleman  ?  .  .  .  white  .  .  .  and  she  hopping 
about  like  a  sand-piper  all  day  long?" 

"It  wouldn't  matter  in  her  case,"  Olier  responded, 
absently. 

Poor  Hanvec  dropped  his  limp  cap  into  one  of  his 
capacious  sabots,  and  came  deliberately  forward  until 
he  almost  touched  his  master. 

"  Let  me  look  at  the  clear  of  your  eyes,  M'sieu  l'Comte," 

38 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

he  said,  earnestly.  "It  isn't  possible — something  ails 
you!  I  never  heard  you  talk  wild  like  this  before,  and 
if  defunct  our  good  lady — may  she  rest  in  peace" — here 
he  devoutly  crossed  himself — "  hears  you  now,  she'll  never 
set  foot  in  here  again.  Don't  you  trouble  about  that 
Rozkavel  witch  any  more.  She's  here  for  no  good  pur 
pose — I  feel  it  in  my  bones — and  there's  trouble  enough 
without  her  already." 

Olier  saw  that  the  old  man  was  really  concerned,  and 
he  patted  the  bent  shoulder  reassuringly. 

"There,  there,"  he  said,  kindly,  "quit  worrying  about 
me,  and  tell  me  instead  what  trouble  you  mean." 

"What  trouble  ?  Every  sort  of  trouble,  M'sieu  1'Comte. 
You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  Trouble  everywhere,  which 
ever  way  one  turns." 

Olier  rose  quickly  to  his  feet  and  leaned  against  the 
monumental  blue  granite  chimney-piece,  his  face  turned 
from  the  bright,  revealing  flames. 

"I'm  not  going  to  look  at  you  any  more,  M'sieu  Olier. 
You  can  sit  down,"  said  Hanvec,  with  perfect  simplicity 
and  not  at  all  as  if  to  exhibit  his  shrewdness.  "You 
see,"  he  continued,  studiously  gazing  at  the  vague  pattern 
of  the  faded  Turkey  hearth-rug,  "we're  in  a  bad  way 
here,  and  there's  something  in  the  wind  that's  going  to 
breed  a  fine  tempest  soon." 

"I'm  hanged  if  I  understand  what  you're  driving  at," 
Olier  interposed,  impatiently,  from  the  shadow  of  the 
high  mantel. 

"Don't  you,  M'sieu  1'Comte?"  the  other  continued, 
wholly  undisturbed.  "Perhaps  you  don't  know  also  that 
before  long  every  mother's  son  of  us  will  have  to  rise 
up  against  those  French,  or  be  flattened  as  flat  as  the 
back  of  my  hand.  ...  I'm  old  to  fight,  but  never  mind  .  .  . 
never  mind  .  .  .  when  the  hour  comes  I'll  load  and  shoulder 

39 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

a  musket  or  sharpen  a  scythe  with  the  best — or  I'll  take 
my  sabot  in  my  fist  if  there's  nothing  else.*  But  what  we 
want  is  a  leader  .  .  .  one  of  the  old  sort." 

Olier  had  let  him  go  on  unhindered,  but  at  this  he 
dropped  his  hand  heavily  on  the  white-bloused  shoulder. 

"Be  quiet!"  he  commanded.  "You  know  that  I  can't 
listen  to  such  talk.  What  devil  possesses  you  to-night?" 
They  were  eying  each  other  now,  man  and  master,  mas 
ter  and  man,  as  absolute  equals,  a  dark  flush  slowly 
mounting  to  the  roots  of  Olier's  hair,  while  the  older  face 
was  paling  beneath  the  sun-stains  of  seventy  long  years. 
Then,  suddenly,  Olier  let  his  hand  fall  to  his  side  and 
turned  his  head  away. 

"Does  M'sieu  1'Comte  wish  the  strawberries  gathered 
to-morrow  morning?"  Hanvec  asked,  in  the  toneless, 
even  voice  of  a  well-trained  servant  coming  for  orders. 
"They  are  rotting  on  the  stalk." 

"Rotting  on  the  stalk?"  Olier  asked,  in  bewilderment. 
"Who  .  .  .  what?" 

"The  strawberries  in  the  south  garden,  M'sieu  1'Comte," 
Hanvec  respectfully  explained. 

"Oh,  the  strawberries!  Gather  them  if  they  need 
gathering." 

"And,"  the  old  man  implacably  persisted,  "what  shall 
I  do  with  them  when  they  are  gathered?" 

"Give  them  away,  or  throw  them  to  the  pigs;  I  don't 
care  a  damn!"  Olier  cried,  in  exasperation,  turning  his 
back  full  upon  his  unmoved  retainer,  who,  noiselessly 
picking  up  his  sabots  and  cap,  stepped  softly  from  the 
hall,  a  Machiavellian  smile  on  his  wrinkled  lips. 

Left  alone,  Olier  threw  himself  in  his  arm-chair,  thrust 
both  hands  in  his  pockets,  and,  fixing  a  pair  of  unwinking 

*  The  heavy  sabot  of  the  peasant,  wielded  as  a  club,  is  a  mur 
derous  weapon. 

40 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

and  suddenly  hardened  eyes  upon  the  red  core  of  the  fire, 
fell  into  a  very  abyss  of  vexatious  thought.  Hanvec's 
words  kept  ringing  mercilessly  in  his  ears.  "We  want  a 
leader  ...  a  leader  ...  a  leader!"  He,  Olier  de  Frehe'l,  an 
officer  in  France's  navy,  had  just  been  asked — unofficially, 
it  is  true,  but  by  a  voice  which  he  knew  spoke  for  the 
entire  country-side  —  to  lead  an  insurrection  against 
France.  This  was  what  Hanvec  had  meant.  Forswear 
his  allegiance,  show  himself  disloyal  to  the  flag  under 
which  he  served  ? 

Involuntarily  he  detached  his  gaze  from  the  incan 
descent  coals,  and  winced  as  it  encountered  the  droop 
ing  folds  of  a  worn  old  banner  fastened  to  the  tapestry 
above  the  portrait  of  Herve,  Comte  de  Frehe'l,  captain 
of  a  ship -of -war  in  the  reign  of  the  twelfth  Louis. 
The  sumptuous  satin,  still  dimly  white  between  its  thick- 
sown,  golden  fleurs-de-lys,  gleamed  faintly  in  the  leaping 
glow  of  an  outer  fringe  of  small  twigs  burning  more 
fiercely  than  the  larger  sticks,  and  the  long,  golden  tas 
sels  hanging  from  the  staff  swayed  a  little  in  the  draught 
from  the  chimney,  as  they  had  done  in  the  winds  of 
forgotten  ages.  The  King's  flag!  The  flag  of  that  old 
France,  who,  whatever  her  faults,  was  the  mightiest  of 
European  states,  with  whom  her  enemies  dealt  in  coali 
tion  if  they  dealt  at  all — a  France  whose  policy  was  not 
to  be  unsettled  by  a  hint  of  menace  from  a  foreign  power ! 

With  a  groan  Olier  forced  himself  to  look  away  from  it. 
What  had  he,  Lieutenant  de  Frehe'l,  of  the  steel-hulled, 
triple-engined,  four-screw,  twenty- four- knot  cruiser  Marat, 
in  common  with  that  ancient  and  unsullied  emblem? 
And  yet,  duty  or  no  duty,  oath  or  no  oath,  how  could  he 
close  his  eyes  to  the  glaring  truth?  The  violent  opposi 
tion  of  Brittany  to  the  arbitrary  doings  of  the  French 
government  during  the  recent  Church  and  State  crisis 

41 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

was  but  a  preliminary  to  further  and  worse  conflicts  .  .  . 
that  could  not  be  doubted  .  .  .  and  upon  Breton  loyalty 
a  great  deal  depended,  since  Brittany  is  to-day,  as  it  has 
always  been,  the  nursery  of  the  French  navy.  It  seemed 
incredible  in  the  face  of  this  that  France  should  pursue 
her  short-sighted  and  senseless  war  against  Breton  faiths, 
Breton  customs,  and  even  the  Breton  language — a  sore 
point  indeed  with  those  arch-conservatives — but  so  it 

was. 

"Ar  Brkzonek  h&g  ar  Feiz 
A  20  breur  ha  C'hoar  b  Breiz,"  * 

he  murmured,  and,  suddenly  jumping  to  his  feet,  began  to 
pace  the  floor  restlessly  from  one  end  to  the  other  of  the 
immense  room. 

"Fools!  Fools!  Fools!"  he  repeated  aloud,  again  and 
again,  as  in  an  unending  procession  the  long  tally  of 
useless  injustices  and  wrong-dealings  to  which  his  race 
had  been  subjected  passed  through  his  mind.  It  seemed 
all  so  inane,  from  the  annulment  of  ecclesiastical  influ 
ence — and  that  influence  had  certainly  been  on  the  side 
of  morality,  decency,  and  good  conduct — down  to  the  ap 
palling  system  of  organized  delation,  as  baleful  and  fully 
as  fatal  in  its  effects  for  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
victims  as  that  described  by  Tacitus.  Oh  yes,  "inform 
ing"  was  now  raised  throughout  France  to  the  importance 
of  a  public  institution.  The  army  was  daily  becoming 
more  gangrened  by  a  wilful  admixture  of  accredited  and 
duly  subventioned  agents,  who  boasted  the  title  of 
"  Franc-Maf ons  de  la  Solidarite  Militaire,"  and  who, 
forming  a  loathsome  association,  ceaselessly  spied  upon 
their  brother  officers,  and  reported  to  high  quarters  upon 
their  religious  and  political  opinions.  There  existed,  as 

*  "  In  Brittany  the  faith  and  the  language  are  brother  and 
sister." 

42 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Olier  well  knew,  an  official  "Delation  Bureau,"  by  which, 
during  the  past  year,  twelve  thousand  brave  officers  had 
been  besmirched  and  blacklisted  in  carefully  docketed 
briefs.  Untruthful  and  infamous  dossiers,  teeming,  of 
course,  with  misrepresentation,  but  admirably  catalogued 
and  annotated  in  two  ponderous  volumes,  respectively 
entitled  Corinth  and  Carthage,  as  corresponding  to  the 
parabolic  sheep  and  goats.  "Delenda  est  Carthago"  was 
the  relentless  motto  of  the  originator  of  that  modern 
Delation  Bureau,  which,  according  to  his  own  statements, 
meant  professional  ruin,  or  at  least  the  absolute  loss  of 
all  hope  of  future  promotion,  for  the  unfortunates  whose 
names  were  once  engrossed  upon  the  pages  of  Carthage. 
And  this  was  taking  place  under  a  republican  regime 
flaunting  the  magnificent  device,  "  Liber te,  Egalite,  Fra- 
ternite."  Liberty!  Fraternity!  What  about  the  ferocity 
of  those  measures  taken  recently,  then,  with  regard  to 
the  de-religionization  at  any  price  .  .  .  any  cost  ...  of 
the  army  and  navy?  What  about  those  latest  decrees 
denying  the  comfort  and  consolation  of  the  Last  Sacra 
ments  to  dying  soldiers  and  sailors,  excepting  at  the  offi 
cial  and  personal  request  of  the  moribund  ?  Olier  remem 
bered  the  storm  of  indignation  this  had  aroused  far  and 
wide.  And  how  could  it  be  otherwise,  when  even  the 
peoples  professing  other  creeds  than  Catholicism  showed 
so  different  a  comprehension  of  their  duties  ?  He  thought 
of  how,  during  the  Boer  war,  the  British  authorities  had 
sent  a  Catholic  priest  seven  hundred  miles  by  special 
train  to  hear  the  last  confession  of  a  dangerously  wounded 
private  soldier;  and  opposite  this  fact  he  set  the  case  of 

Lieutenant  L ,  who,  shot  and  taken  unconscious  to  the 

hospital,  had  been  left  there  to  die  like  a  dog,  although 

his  cousin,  M.  P de  L ,  demanded  that  a  priest 

should  be  immediately  summoned,  pointing  out,  in  justi- 

43 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

fication  of  this  request,  the  consecrated  medals  found 
hanging  by  a  chain  around  the  young  officer's  neck,  be 
neath  his  blood-stained  tunic.  Alas,  many  other  and  yet 
more  grievous  instances  of  the  same  deliberate  evil-doing 
made  Olier  clinch  his  fists  in  impotent  rage  as  he  recalled 
them  one  by  one. 

Wearied  and  disheartened,  he  felt  at  that  moment 
tempted  to  send  in  his  resignation  from  the  navy  at  once, 
and  without  any  further  paltering.  But  was  it  not  per 
haps  a  sign  of  weakness  in  him  thus  to  avoid  facing  the 
music?  And,  besides,  what  could  he,  alone  and  unaided, 
do  to  stem  the  muddy  torrent  let  loose  upon  his  native 
land?  He  paused  again  in  front  of  the  hearth,  where 
now  only  a  few  charred  bits  of  wood  smoked  dismally, 
and  racked  his  brain  for  the  twentieth  time  that  night 
in  search  of  some  possible  solution. 

"We  want  a  chief  .  .  .  one  of  the  old  sort."  Pursued  by 
the  echo  of  old  Hanvec's  demand,  he  fled  up  the  broad, 
shallow-stepped  staircase  where  in  sport  one  of  his  an 
cestors  had  once  ridden  his  war-charger,  setting  other 
echoes  to  work  beneath  the  groined  stone  arches  that 
had  sheltered  countless  De  Frehels  in  the  vanished  days, 
when  honor  was  no  vain  and  empty  word. 

"I  cannot!  I  cannot!"  he  said  aloud;  and,  with  a 
suddenly  lagging  and  spiritless  step,  he  passed  slowly  on 
to  his  room  in  the  gray  dawn-light,  wishing,  from  his 
heart,  that  the  sea-weed  snare  had  dragged  him  to  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean  a  month  ago. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Under  the  dunes — those  herded  monsters  tall, 
Now  basking  warm,  and  now  that  vague  and  vast 
Bristling  their  manes  of  sea-grass,  writhe  and  crawl 
Before  the  smoking  blast — 

Skirting  the  naked  shingle  salt  and  dry, 
Crannied  aloft,  or  nodding  to  the  spume, 
By  Earth  uncherished,  or  the  Heavens  high 
My  flower  of  flowers  doth  bloom; 

Foliaged  in  frosty  green  from  head  to  heel, 
Petaled  with  spider-silk  that  cups  the  sun, 
Frail  as  a  moonbeam,  yet  the  strength  of  steel 
To  hold  a  growth  begun. 

Steadfast  in  sand,  secure  in  strife  and  din, 
You,  dear  heart,  you  and  yours,  she  doth  express; 
Courage,  and  its  yet  undissevered  twin, 
Unfaltering  Tenderness. 

For  though  step-daughter  of  the  brooding  sky, 
The  bitter  sea-breath  and  the  stony  mould, 
Sweetly  she  proffers  to  the  passer-by 
Free  and  ungrudging  gold. 

The  Sand-Poppy. — M.  M. 

THE  shelving  face  of  red  rock  behind  and  overtopping 
Fort  Rozkavel  forms  a  rather  ineffectual  barrier  between 
the  waves  and  the  lande,  for  it  has  many  wide  gaps 
through  which  broad  slices  of  turf  have  slid  to  mingle 
with  the  ruddy  sand,  and  there  become  islets  of  vigorous 
greenery,  that  obstinately  hold  their  own  against  biting 

45 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

winds  and  bitter  salt  spray,  until  a  storm  rushes  up  to 
tear  them  to  pieces  and  scatter  the  tough  little  plants 
of  which  they  are  composed  in  all  directions.  Bleaching 
bits  of  wreckage,  suggestive  of  the  dangerous  nature  of 
the  coast,  bestrew  this  narrow  desert  of  foreshore,  and 
sword -bladed  maritime  grasses,  eternally  shaking  and 
whispering  in  the  strong  sea-breath,  encroach  even  upon 
the  so-called  road  leading  to  the  hump-backed  promon 
tory  crowned  by  the  little  Fort. 

On  the  morning  following  Olier's  torturing  cogitations 
the  present  inhabitant  of  that  grim  dwelling  left  its  gran 
ite  archway  and  set  off  along  the  heather-path  at  a  rapid 
pace.  Upright  and  trim,  she  swung  along  with  that  ease 
and  litheness  which  at  one  glance  betrays  perfect  health 
and  poise  of  body  and  mind,  looking  continually  seaward 
as  she  walked,  and  rarely  turning  her  eyes  toward  the 
land — a  gray-green  level,  differing  but  little  save  by  its 
immobility  from  the  great  plain  of  water  to  her  right. 

Before  reaching  the  narrow  chaussee  on  each  side  of 
which  cluster  the  few  cottages  that  make  up  Rozkavel 
village,  she  met  two  salt-workers,  who  scowled  savagely 
from  beneath  the  wide  brims  of  their  soft  felt  hats  at  the 
slender  woman  in  navy-blue  serge  and  dark  b£ret,  set 
squarely  sailor-fashion  upon  her  snowy  coils  of  hair. 
"  Milligaden  !"  *  one  of  them  growled,  while  the  other,  has 
tily  crossing  himself,  whispered,  glancing  back  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  stranger: 

"Have  you  seen — the  young  face  and  old  hair?  .  .  . 
That's  a  Korrigane  ...  a  doer  of  evil  and  a  caster  of 
spells,  depend  upon  it!"  And  he  repeated  the  sign  of 
the  Cross. 

Ignorant  though  she  must  have  been  of  the  purport 

*  Accursed. 
46 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

of  their  unflattering  opinion,  yet,  had  some  perspicu 
ous  observer  been  concealed  behind  the  tall  clumps  of 
furze  that  here  crowded  in  upon  the  road,  he  might  have 
been  puzzled  by  the  curious  little  smile,  half-defiant, 
half-amused,  which  for  an  instant  replaced  the  expression 
of  musing  sadness  upon  her  lovely  features.  Sadness  was 
not  habitual  Avith  her.  It  may  have  been,  therefore,  merely 
the  reflex  of  the  Breton  landscape,  for  Brittany  in  its  grave 
and  severe  beauty  strikes  the  minor  dominant  of  Celtic 
song;  still,  it  sat  rather  oddly  upon  such  a  woman,  and 
offered  a  decided  contrast  to  her  self-reliant  gait  and 
bearing. 

Quaint  and  delightful  little  old  Rozkavel  village  looked 
that  morning,  its  thatched  roofs,  all  aglow  with  purple 
irises  and  pink  house  -  leeks,  basking  in  the  pale  -  golden 
May  sunlight,  its  tiny  garden  patches,  reclaimed  from 
the  universal  sand-dune,  displaying  row  after  brave  row 
of  cabbages  and  onions,  graced  here  and  there  by  the 
lace-like  shade  of  a  few  clusters  of  rose-tufted  tamarisks, 
while  now  and  again  the  squat  trunk  of  a  fig-tree  showed 
ghostly  gray  amid  the  gloom  of  its  leathern  foliage.  Not 
a  soul,  however,  was  to  be  seen,  though  from  the  top  of 
the  rise  Lady  Clanvowe  had  plainly  discerned  many 
busy  figures  hurrying  to  and  fro.  Now  the  half-door  of 
every  little  granite  house  was  carefully  drawn  to,  and  not 
even  a  stray  dog  prowled  about  the  boundary  ditches  as 
the  visitor  from  Rozkavel,  a  little  surprised  at  the  pro 
found  silence  and  lifelessness  of  the  place,  slackened  her 
pace  and  peered  over  a  low  wall  of  piled-up  stones  held 
together  apparently  by  nothing  more  binding  than  a  pro 
fuse  felting  of  Bethlehem-moss,  thickly  powdered  with 
its  millions  of  imperceptible  waxen  starlets. 

Her  curiosity  was  rewarded  merely  by  a  view  of  other 
rows  of  prosperous  cabbages,  serried  phalanxes  of  onions 

47 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

pungently  and  pompously  drawn  to  their  full  height  of 
three  feet  odd,  and  the  slate  margin  of  a  well,  whereon 
reposed  a  dusky  wooden  pail,  brimful  of  temptingly 
clear  water.  Between  this  and  the  back-door  of  the 
house  a  willow  broom  and  a  solitary  overturned  sabot 
appeared  to  indicate  a  line  of  flight,  and  Lady  Clanvowe, 
distinctly  puzzled,  stepped  back  upon  the  road. 

At  that  instant  a  stone,  coming  from  nowhere  in 
particular,  but  nevertheless  creditably  aimed,  narrowly 
missed  her  temple  and  fell  in  the  midst  of  the  onion-army, 
breaking  off  short  two  of  its  most  commanding  units. 
Quick  as  a  flash  she  turned  on  her  heel  and  faced  about. 
There  was  a  sudden  glitter  in  her  eyes  that  made  them 
seem  rather  violet  than  blue,  but  her  color  never  wavered 
as  she  stood  absolutely  still,  waiting  for  further  develop 
ments.  Still  nobody  was  to  be  seen,  and,  far  and  wide, 
nothing  louder  than  the  monotonous  drone  of  many 
bees  and  the  soft  mutter  of  the  rising  tide  below  the  dune 
could  be  heard.  Beginning  to  doubt  the  evidence  of  her 
senses,  she  determined  to  investigate  the  matter  a  little 
further,  but  before  she  could  put  the  idea  into  execution 
a  volley  of  stones  and  pebbles  rattled  viciously  all  around 
her,  none  of  them,  fortunately,  taking  effect. 

Evidently  the  attacking  party  was  ensconced  behind 
those  other  low  walls  surrounding  the  cottages  across 
the  road,  and  she  bent  quickly  forward  as  if  to  try  and 
see  over  them.  She  was  getting  angry  now  —  angrier 
than  she  had  been  for  many  years.  "They'd  murder 
me  if  they  dared,"  she  thought,  "only  they  proba 
bly  won't  dare."  And,  in  spite  of  all,  her  irrepressi 
ble  sense  of  humor  asserted  itself,  and  showed  her  the 
ridicule  of  the  situation  —  being  brought  to  bay  by  an 
enemy  that  seemed  so  desperately  shy!  "The  battle  is 
over  for  to-day,  anyhow,"  she  mused,  and  for  the  sec- 

48 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

ond  time  her  strategic  forecast  was  set  at  naught,  as  a 
jagged  bit  of  flint  hummed  sharply  through  the  air, 
catching  her  full  on  the  point  of  the  shoulder  and  making 
her  flinch  ever  so  slightly,  to  her  extreme  disgust. 

"Haloun!"*  she  cried,  her  voice  sharp  with  sudden 
fury.  '' Folia  ibil  a  ves  er  c'harr,  a  onigour  da  genial"  \ 

Dead  silence  followed  this  tirade — a  favorite  one  with 
angry  Bretons — and  then  a  vast  buzz  of  excited  comment 
rose  from  all  directions  at  once,  punctuated  by  such  ex 
clamations  as:  "She  spoke  Breton!"  .  .  .  "  It  was  Roz- 
kavel  Breton.  Did  you  hear  her?"  cutting  clear  and  high 
above  the  low-pitched  voices. 

"Yes,  Breton,  of  course,  you  blockheads!  What  else 
should  it  be?"  she  called  out,  the  soft  gutturals  of  their 
beloved  tongue  acquiring  a  peculiar  grace  as  she  pro 
nounced  them ;  and  at  that  a  foam  of  white  coiffes,  with 
here  and  there  the  long,  flowing  hair  of  a  masculine  head, 
washed  over  the  crests  of  all  the  little  walls  amid  a  deaf 
ening  scramble  of  sabots,  and  the  population  of  Roz- 
kavel  village  swept  toward  her  like  a  wave.  Quite  un 
moved,  she  stood  her  ground,  and  saw  them  halt  within 
three  paces  of  her,  bunching  together  like  startled  sheep. 

"Well,"  she  said,  quietly,  in  the  vernacular,  "have 
you  played  the  fool  long  enough?  Can  you  recognize  a 
friend  now?" 

Still  huddled  in  a  compact  mass,  they  were  staring 
stupidly  at  her,  and  there  was  a  moment  of  dense  silence; 
then,  all  at  once,  and  as  if  moved  by  one  impulse,  the 
elder  men  and  women  began  pushing  and  elbowing  their 
way  to  the  front,  vague  comprehension  beginning  to  light 
the  worn,  sunburned  faces  craned  eagerly  forward. 

*  Canailles,  contemptible  people. 

t  "As  always,  the  worst  pegs  of  the  cart  grate  first,"  which  is 
equivalent  to  "  Much  fuss  for  little  work." 
4  49 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  Lady  Clanvowe  asked  again, 
in  her  clear,  far-reaching  tones,  and  one  tall  old  man, 
who  stood  head  and  shoulders  above  the  crowd,  cried 
out,  hoarsely: 

"Vamkzel  Rouanez!*     Vamezel  Rouanez!" 

"Of  course.  Who  else?"  she  said,  with  a  breathless 
little  laugh.  "  Rouanez  de  Rozkavel  come  back  to  you 
after  all  these  years  to  be  greeted  with  curses  and  insults ! 
You're  a  nice  lot!" 

The  man  who  had  spoken  was  slowly  taking  off  his  hat. 
"  Children,"  he  announced,  in  a  voice  of  awe,  "  it  is  indeed 
our  Demoiselle  come  back  to  us  from  the  dead."  And 
at  the  portentous  words  there  was  a  recoil,  for  those  there 
who  had  never  seen  her,  and  had  always  heard  her  name 
numbered  among  the  "blessed  departed,"  took  them 
literally ;  all  the  more  readily  since  it  was  visibly  impossi 
ble  for  her  to  be  standing  there,  young  and  slim  and 
vigorous  as  a  sapling,  after  all  those  years  ...  all  those 
years!  Fear  was  dawning  in  all  the  eyes  fixed  upon  her, 
and,  guessing  their  thoughts,  she  addressed  herself  to 
the  old  man,  with  a  little  hint  of  that  unconscious  au 
thority  which  is  inherited  but  never  acquired: 

"Come  here,  lann  Loudeac,"  holding  out  her  hand 
toward  him,  "and  see  for  yourself  whether  I  am  alive 
or  not." 

Slowly,  leaning  on  his  pen-baz,  lann  Loudeac  obeyed, 
his  eyes,  still  keen  as  a  hawk's,  hungrily  searching  every 
feature  of  that  face  so  unmistakably  Rozkavel.  His  gi 
gantic  frame  was  trembling  like  a  leaf,  and,  when  he  at 
last  reached  her  side,  a  full  second  passed  before  he  sum 
moned  courage  to  touch  her  slender,  ungloved  fingers. 

"The  Blessed  Saints  be  glorified,"  he  whispered,  bend- 

*  Mademoiselle  Reine. 
5° 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

ing  low  over  the  little  hand  strongly  grasping  his.  "The 
Blessed  Saints  be  praised;  it  is  indeed  our  Vamezel,  our 
little  Rouanez-gez !"  *  All  the  antique  loyalty  and  fealty, 
the  whole-souled  devotion  of  the  Breton  race,  rang  in 
the  one  sentence,  and  the  rest  who  heard  closed  in  around 
her,  incoherent  with  remorse  and  shame  and  enthusiasm, 
trying  to  touch  her  dress,  her  hands,  her  feet,  and  show 
ering  benedictions  upon  her  head  as  zealously  and  pro 
fusely  as  they  had  showered  stones  a  few  minutes  before. 
She  was  not  an  emotional  woman,  and  yet  her  eyes  were 
full  of  tears  as  she  listened  and  found  herself  surrounded 
again  with  the  atmosphere  she  had  so  unconsciously 
missed  during  her  long  exile.  Indeed,  so  utterly  absorbed 
were  all  the  actors  of  the  little  drama  that  nobody  heard 
the  quick  beats  of  rapidly  approaching  hoofs,  nor  caught 
sight  of  horse  and  rider  until  they  had  brought  up  smartly 
on  the  very  ed^3  of  the  densely  packed  semicircle  about 
Lady  Clanvowe,  and  a  voice  demanded,  in  no  uncertain 
terms,  an  immediate  explanation  of  this  ominous  gathering. 

From  the  brow  of  the  sand-hill  which  partly  shelters 
Rozkavel  village  from  the  north  wind,  Olier  de  Frehel 
had  watched  the  commotion  anxiously,  although  quite 
unable  to  distinguish  what  was  going  on;  but,  since  he 
was  in  a  mood  just  then  to  translate  almost  anything 
into  danger-signals,  he  had  galloped  down  the  incline  at  a 
breakneck  pace. 

"Lady  Clanvowe!"  he  cried,  bending  in  his  saddle  as 
he  caught  sight  of  her—  "Lady  Clanvowe!  What  on 
earth  are  you  doing  here?" 

She  raised  her  laughing,  tearful  eyes,  and  for  a  second 
they  looked  at  each  other  over  the  coping  of  coiffes  and 
rough,  red,  masculine  heads  in  mutual  stupefaction. 

*  Our  darling  little  Queen. 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Greeting  old  friends!"  she  called  back  at  last,  coming 
forward  through  a  lane  of  curtseying  people.  He  had 
jumped  to  the  ground  and  bowed  low  over  her  hand. 

"You  gave  me  a  fine  fright,"  he  said,  quickly,  in 
French,  which,  of  course,  save  the  men  who  had  been 
in  the  service,  none  of  those  about  understood;  and, 
lowering  his  voice,  he  added:  "These  are  unquiet  times, 
and  I  thought  those  dare-devils  were  up  to  some  mis 
chief,  instead  of  which  I  find  them  embracing  your  knees. 
What  does  it  all  mean?" 

The  Rozkavellians  had  fallen  back,  and  were  whisper 
ing  excitedly  between  themselves  and  casting  curious 
glances  at  them  from  a  respectful  distance. 

"It  means  a  long  story,"  she  said,  sitting  down  on  the 
top  of  the  nearest  little  wall,  "but  I  can  summarize  it 
in  six  words.  I  was  once  Rouanez  de  Rozkavel,  and 
these  faithful  souls  have  not  forgotten  ms.  That  is  all." 

"All?"  Olier  exclaimed.     "What  a  fool  I  have  been!" 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  should  have  read  you  at  once.  Somehow 
or  other  you  seemed  so  un-English,  so  very  unlike  a 
stranger,  when  I  met  you  on  the  Etoile  de  Brest,  and  even 
when  you  .  .  ." 

"Exasperated  you  most?"  she  suggested. 

"  Not  that  .  .  .  but  still  the  puzzle  was  irritating,  and  I 
see  you  noticed  my  priggish  behavior." 

"Not  at  all  priggish  .  .  .  pronouncedly  Breton,  per 
haps." 

"Thank  you,  I  like  that  better;  and  you  are  very  in 
dulgent.  But  what  really  humiliates  me  is  not  to  have 
recognized  you." 

"Recognized  me?"  she  asked,  sincerely  surprised. 
"How  could  you  have  done  that?" 

"  Oh,  simply  enough ;  for  I  have  at  home  a  portrait  of 

52 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

your  mother,  whom  you  resemble — I  see  it  now — to  an 
extraordinary  degree.  It  hangs  in  a  room  where  I  sel 
dom  go  now,  which  is  my  only  excuse,  for  otherwise  ..." 
He  paused,  and  then  went  on,  naively:  "I  understand 
why  I  have  been  vexing  myself  so  constantly  of  late,  try 
ing  to  remember  who  you  reminded  me  of,  and  it  was 
the  Marquise  de  Rozkavel  .  .  .  my  special  adoration  since 
childhood  ,  .  .  I  mean  ..."  He  stopped  short,  blushing 
furiously,  but  she  was  quietly  brushing  the  wiry  little 
brown  chevelures  of  the  moss  upon  the  stone  beside  her 
with  her  open  palm,  and,  without  raising  her  eyes  from 
this  absorbing  work,  she  said,  quite  naturally: 

"Yes,  that  might  have  helped  you.  I  know  I  am  like 
my  mother,  for  my  father  often  used  to  say  so." 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  me  who  you  were,"  Olier  resumed, 
speaking  with  more  ease.  "I  could  have  been  of  some 
use  to  you  perhaps  on  your  arrival  here.  For,  of  course, 
it  is  you  who  have  taken  Fort  Rozkavel,  is  it  not?" 

"It  is." 

"And  who  .  .  .  who  play  the  violin?" 

"Yes.     But  how  do  you  know  that,  please?" 

He  glanced  absent-mindedly  at  the  cluster  of  people 
still  curiously  watching  from  afar,  and  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper : 

"I  heard  you  last  night  from  the  beach  .  .  .  and  oh!  ... 
it  was  a  pleasure!" 

"It's  nice  of  you  to  say  that,"  she  responded,  with  a 
quick  smile.  "You  must  come  and  listen  to  my  musical 
vagaries  at  close  range,  since  you  like  that  sort  of  thing. 
Your  mother  and  I  were  playmates,  and  you  may,  if 
you  feel  like  it,  look  upon  me  as  a  sort  of  long -lost 
aunt." 

She  gave  a  final  rub  to  the  tough  little  moss  perruques, 
and  glanced  up  at  him. 

53 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Why  do  you  laugh?"  she  demanded,  in  her  decided 
little  way. 

"Because  you  do  not  look  like  an  aunt  for  a  man  of 
my  age." 

She  nodded  disapproval.  "You  are  not,"  she  ex 
plained,  "given  to  making  compliments,  I  hope.  I  dis 
like  them,  as  I  do  everything  savoring  of  triviality,  and 
I'd  sooner  you  would  not  displease  me,  even  in  trifles." 

"That  was  not  a  compliment." 

"Then  it's  worse.  You  are  dealing  in  subtleties  .  .  . 
no  more,  no  less.  Anyhow,"  she  concluded,  rising  and 
brushing  a  few  bits  of  moss  from  her  skirt,  "what  I  mean 
is  this:  I  have  come  here  in  search  of  rest,  silence,  and 
luxurious  loneliness.  I  do  not  intend  to  see  anybody; 
but,  nevertheless,  since  it  is  silly  to  overdo  anything,  I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  receive  you,  provided  you  come  a  la 
Bretonne  and  not  a  la  Frangaise.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"I  think  I  do,"  he  answered,  at  once.  "But  you  are 
hard  on  Frenchmen.  There  are  some  left  who  know  how 
to  behave." 

"Are  there?  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it.  But  they  do 
not  belong  to  the  younger  generation.  And,  by-the-way, 
I  am  anxious  to  remain,  for  the  world  at  large,  merely 
Lady  Clanvowe.  I  am  going  to  warn  those  impulsive 
but  extremely  reliable  people  yonder  of  my  wishes  in  the 
matter,  and  I  know  that  I  can  count  on  your  discretion." 

"You  can.  Moreover,  I  live  at  Kremarze,  like  a  her 
mit,  and  spend  my  time  absolutely  alone." 

"Ah!" 

She  gave  him  a  swift,  searching  glance,  and  took  a 
step  in  the  direction  of  her  former  vassals. 

"You'll  let  me  walk  back  with  you?"  he  pleaded. 
"I'll  send  my  hors^  home  by  one  of  those  lads  there." 

54 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"You  are  afraid  of  some  fresh  attack  upon  me?"  she 
asked,  laughing. 

"Well,  yes,"  he  admitted.  "Everybody  around  here 
is  not  aware  of  your  true  personality,  and  one  can  never 
know  to  what  lengths  our  thorough-going  people  may 
go,  where  strangers  are  concerned." 

"  I've  just  had  a  taste  of  that,"  she  said,  lightly.  "  But 
I  am  generally  quite  able  to  take  care  of  myself.  Also, 
it  will  force  you  to  make  a  long  detour." 

"You  needn't  trouble  about  that,"  he  interposed,  a 
little  sadly.  "I  am  the  most  useless  of  mortals  since 
weeks  and  weeks.  Indeed,  it  will  be  a  charity  on  your 
part  to  give  me  something  to  do." 

"All  right;  wait  a  second."  And  she  went  to  make  her 
adieus,  leaving  him  to  attempt  a  partial  recovery  from 
the  succession  of  surprises  to  which  he  had  been  treated. 

As  a  general  rule,  naval  officers,  even  when  still  pathet 
ically  young,  are  not  easy  to  astonish.  They  peep  too 
early  into  the  world's  kaleidoscope  for  that.  But  Lady 
Clanvowe  was  so  far  from  being  an  ordinary  personality 
that  Olier  could  be  forgiven  for  being  a  little  taken  off 
his  feet.  The  mixture  of  almost  child-like  simplicity  and 
profound  knowledge  of  life  which  characterized  her, 
coupled  with  the  flawless  youthfulness  which  gave  mock 
ing  and  exquisite  denial  to  the  age  he  was  now  obliged 
to  accept  as  a  calendar  fact,  certainly  made  up  a  tout- 
ensemble  that  at  the  very  least  put  him  at  an  embar 
rassing  disadvantage.  She  was  something  never  before 
encountered,  never  even  dreamed  of  or  imagined,  burst 
ing  upon  his  brooding  solitude  like  an  unexpected  bou 
quet  of  fireworks  against  the  dark  background  of  a  mid 
night  sky;  and  perhaps  just  because  he  dreaded  and 
disliked  women  —  unable  to  accustom  himself  to  their 
eternal  coquetries  and  unconquerable  passion  for  make- 

55 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

believe — this  particular  one,  so  diametrically  different 
from  the  rest,  created  upon  him  a  profound  impression. 

His  own  mother  had  died  while  he  was  still  a  baby,  and, 
brought  up  entirely  by  men  of  a  rather  severe  type,  he  en 
tertained  the  frankest  contempt  for  the  Squire  of  Dames, 
as — from  what  he  noticed — did  Lady  Clanvowe  herself. 
She  was  free  from  all  smallnesses,  and  spoke  with  the 
firmness  and  decision  of  a  man  when  she  spoke  at  all; 
her  whole  manner  was  singularly  free  from  that  latent 
striving  to  produce  an  effect  which  can  utterly  mar  the 
charm  of  the  most  brilliant  personality.  Why  should 
she  and  he  not  be  friends,  then,  in  the  highest  possible 
acceptation  of  the  word?  With  a  being  so  fascinatingly 
original,  so  devoid  of  wearisome  femininities,  one  could 
surely  stand  on  safe  and  invigorating  ground.  And  what 
a  boon  it  would  be  to  find  in  her  a  reliable  and  sound- 
minded  counsellor  in  his  present  dilemma!  He  was 
awakened  from  his  revery  by  her  sudden  reappearance 
at  his  side,  and  the  "Come  along,"  full  of  camaraderie, 
with  which  she  prefaced  the  walk  to  Rozkavel. 

They  had  taken  the  narrow  dune-path,  and  were  going 
in  Indian  file,  when  all  at  once  she  checked  her  rapid  pace 
with  such  abruptness,  and  bent  herself  almost  double 
in  so  unexpected  a  fashion,  that  he  just  missed  taking  a 
header  over  her  stooping  figure. 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  aghast. 

"A  long-remembered  delight — sand-poppies!"  she  cried, 
kneeling  down  in  the  midst  of  a  patch  of  sulphur-hued, 
broad-winged  bloom. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,"  she  continued,  quickly  pulling 
off  her  gloves,  "to  find  this  most  delicate,  perhaps,  of  all 
the  flowers  thriving  and  prospering  in  a  perpetual  whirl 
wind?  Just  look  at  that  gauzy  tissue!  One  can  almost 
see  through  it!"  She  raised  luminous  eyes  to  his  smiling 

56 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

ones,  holding  up  toward  him  a  great  cluster  of  fairy- 
golden  petals  in  their  setting  of  frosty  green.  "Do  you 
like  flowers?"  she  demanded,  peremptorily. 

"Yes — very  much,"  he  admitted. 

"Ah!  I'm  glad  of  that.  So  few  men  really  do;  and 
those  who  possess  that  wholesome  taste  are  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  it." 

"I  also  love  jewels,"  he  announced,  gently  fingering 
the  velvety  poppy  foliage.  "May  I  look  at  that  ex 
traordinary  ring  of  yours?  It  is  an  asteria,  is  it  not? 
But  I  never  saw  so  pure  or  so  large  a  one." 

"Yes,  it's  a  ruby  asteria,"  she  answered,  promptly 
holding  out  her  hand  to  him  from  where  she  knelt — "the 
Stone  of  Fate,  you  know." 

The  searching  sun-rays  were  outlining  the  six-pointed 
star  clearly  on  the  deep  carnation  tints  of  the  gem,  and 
she  turned  it  hither  and  thither  for  him  to  examine. 
"My  husband  gave  it  to  me  just  before  his  departure. 
But,  unlike  you,  he  loves  neither  jewels  nor  flowers, 
though  he  is  so  good  and  kind  that  he  always  knows  how 
to  select  both  admirably  for  me." 

She  jumped  to  her  feet  again  without  the  least  effort, 
all  of  a  piece  and  her  arms  full  of  flowers.  Such  unheard- 
of  suppleness  was  disconcerting,  and  Olier  stared  at  her 
for  a  moment  before  speaking. 

"Why  didn't  you  teach  him  to  share  your  tastes?"  he 
asked,  taking  from  her  all  she  would  relinquish  of  her 
dainty  burden. 

"Why  should  I  ?  It  would  have  meant,  to  begin  with, 
some  sort  of  contest  and  struggle — a  thing  I  dread  ex 
tremely.  A  big  fight  when  it's  worth  while  .  .  .  well  and 
good.  But  continual  little  bickerings  and  pullings  and 
tuggings  at  another  person's  soul-strings  exasperate  me. 
Besides,  Hubert  never  interferes  with  my  numerous  fads, 

57 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

and  it  would  be  distinctly  unfair  of  me  to  force  them  too 
insistently  upon  him." 

"You  are  fair  through  and  through,"  Olier  said,  con- 
vincedly. 

"I  don't  know.  ...  In  a  fashion  I  think  I  am  reason 
ably  so.  You  see,  unfairness  is  not  merely  bad  policy: 
it  is  unjust,  and  all  injustice  is,  in  my  opinion,  little  less 
than  a  crime.  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  that  I  hold  odd 
views  on  most  subjects,  Monsieur  de  Frehe"l — rather  ob 
stinate  and  unusual  ones." 

"Pas  Bretonne  pour  rien?"  he  suggested. 

"Exactly,"  she  acquiesced.  "But  my  life  has  been 
spent  in  keeping  my  views  and  opinions  in  the  farthest 
possible  background  —  throttling  them  mercilessly  half 
the  time,  to  be  explicit.  For  years  I,  who  abhor  the 
world,  have  been  obliged  to  go  six  nights  out  of  seven  to 
balls,  receptions,  dinners,  and  similar  dreariness.  I  love 
everything  simple,  and  the  very  air  I  usually  breathe  is 
of  the  most  artificial.  ...  I  am  given  to  saying  out  loud 
whatever  I  think  at  the  moment,  and  as  the  wife  of  a 
diplomat  I  am  bound  to  weigh  and  measure  every  word 
I  utter.  More  than  that:  I,  who  am  at  heart  as  anti- 
foreign  as  the  good  folk  about  here,  have  had  to  live  since 
early  childhood  on  alien  soil — for  to  me  all  non-Breton 
lands  are  alien.  But  I  am  speaking  altogether  too  much 
of  myself,  which  is  another  form  of  selfishness  I  don't 
admire.  Let's  look  at  this  instead.  Can  there  be  greater 
beauty  anywhere?" 

She  swept  her  hand  from  east  to  west,  and  stopped  so 
close  to  the  ever-crumbling  edge  of  the  sand-bluff  that 
he  involuntarily  grasped  her  arm. 

"It  is  never  safe  to  go  too  near  the  brink  here,"  he 
cautioned.  But  she  was  gazing  at  the  magnificent  pan 
orama  unfolded  before  her,  and  did  not  even  seem  to  hear. 

58 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

The  swelling  landes,  green  and  golden  with  broom  and 
whin,  rippled  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  from  horizon 
to  shore,  where  the  sea  at  its  full  danced  with  brightest 
laughter  around  the  breasting  rocks;  while  miles  and 
miles  away  a  purple  line  of  pine  forests  barred  the  hazy 
lavender  of  the  sky  like  a  deeper  brush-stroke  upon  some 
masterly  aquarelle. 

"How  can  anybody  prefer  even  the  finest  of  cities  to 
this?"  Lady  Clanvowe  said,  suddenly.  "Sordid,  I  call 
them,  every  one,  with  their  insufferable  reek  of  piled-up 
humans  .  .  .  glare,  gas,  noise,  and  dust!  Oh,  horrible!" 

"You  feel  things  strongly,"  Olier  remarked,  with  a 
laugh. 

"I  do.  But  generally  I  steel-cage  the  temptation  to 
such  outbursts  of  feeling.  I  trust  you  do  not  imagine 
that  I  talk  like  this  to  the  first-comer?" 

"I  don't  think  you  do.  And  let  me  add  that  7  accept 
the  present  exception  as  a  compliment." 

"You  should.  And  I  assure  you  that  it  has  done  me  a 
world  of  good  to  unbend  for  once.  I  am  unbending  most 
of  the  time  now,"  she  continued,  gayly.  "It  was  for 
this  especial  purpose  that  I  took  that  pink  horror  yon 
der  off  the  hands  of  your  government,"  and  she  pointed 
derisively  toward  Fort  Rozkavel,  squatting  unpoetical 
and  businesslike — save  for  its  frivolous  coloring — upon 
its  gorgeous  base  of  red  rock.  "It  is,  to  my  belief,  the 
very  loneliest  spot  in  the  whole  world,"  she  went  on; 
"but  why  a  misguided  Ministry  should  have  seen  fit  to 
bedaub  it  with  shrimp  -  pink  caramel  passeth  under 
standing." 

Olier  burst  into  the  first  hearty  laugh  he  had  indulged 
in  for  months. 

"It  does  look  like  caramel,"  he  admitted.  "It's  pre 
cisely  what  it  looks  like." 

59 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"You  may  well  say  so.  I  can  scarcely  refrain  from 
running  my  tongue  along  the  wall  outside  the  windows 
of  my  room  sometimes,  it  glistens  so  appetizingly  there. 
Do  you  know,  I  think  it  is  Socialistic  varnish,  meant  to 
please  the  masses — a  sugar-coated  fort  may  be  almost 
acceptable  even  to  the  anti-militarists." 

"But  why  didn't  you  have  it  scraped,  then?"  Olier 
asked,  still  laughing. 

"In  order  to  remind  me  day  by  day  that  my  dream  is 
still  incomplete  .  .  .  the  past  dead  and  too  many  illusions 
a  mistake  ..."  She  broke  off  abruptly,  and  fell  into  a  fit 
of  abstraction  so  profound  that  he  felt  as  if  she  had  actually 
left  his  side  and  he  were  once  more  alone  with  his  gloomy 
thoughts.  "What  a  singular  organization!"  he  mused, 
watching  the  momentarily  expressionless  face,  which,  but 
a  moment  ago,  had  glowed  with  enthusiasm.  Now  the 
wonderful  deep-blue  eyes  alone  lived,  and  he  read  pain 
there,  and  longing  and  infinite  regret.  Almost  afraid 
to  move,  he  stood  as  still  as  she,  wondering  what  would 
come  next;  and  when  she  turned  to  him  and  said 
in  her  ordinary  voice:  "Come  along;  I'll  show  you  the 
inside  of  my  Schlaraffenland  house,"  he  followed  her 
without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  V 

Through  wood  or  field  I  could  but  trace, 

Though  loved  of  yore  the  strand, 
A  mask,  and  not  a  living  face; 

I  did  not  know  my  land. 

Remembrance  was  a  fountain  sealed, 

A  hoard  without  a  key; 
In  greeting  low  you  spoke,  and  oh, 

It  was  my  land  to  me! 

Return. — M.  M. 

ANYTHING  grimmer  or  more  uninviting  and  prisonlike 
than  the  outside  of  the  little  Fort,  in  spite  of  its  fancy 
tinting,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  find.  Blank  and 
sleek  the  ramparts  rose  for  thirty  feet  to  the  level  of  the 
square  platform  within,  indicated  by  a  row  of  empty 
embrasures,  yawning  dismally  like  toothless  mouths. 
The  tide  was  quite  high  now,  and  leaped  musically  around 
the  red-rock  base,  blotched  with  the  living  green  of  great 
masses  of  samphire,  and  flecked  with  creamy  foam. 

"The  entrance  is  not  engaging,"  Lady  Clanvowe  stated, 
pausing  before  the  ponderous  iron  door  that  fitted  into 
the  shiny  wall  like  a  cork  in  a  bottle.  "Discouraging, 
eh?  Nothing  short  of  explosives  could  break  it  in.  But 
watch  the  marvellous  workings  of  modern  invention," 
she  concluded,  pressing  the  tiny  ivory  button  of  an  elec 
tric  bell  that  incongruously  punctuated  the  solid  arch 
way.  "Of  course,  this  mode  of  summoning  the  guard  is 
absurd  and  tasteless,  but  I  am  essentially  eclectic,  and 

61 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

when  something  seems  convenient  ..."  The  iron  panel 
rolling  inward  without  a  sound  cut  short  the  explanation, 
and  Olier,  who  had  imagined  himself  beyond  any  further 
surprise  where  she  and  her  household  were  concerned, 
stared  in  amazement  at  a  tall  turbaned  Sikh  salaaming 
low  within  the  narrow  aperture,  instead  of  the  liveried 
servant  he  had  expected  to  see. 

"This  is  Jwala-Singh,"  Lady  Clanvowe  said,  preceding 
her  guest  across  the  stone-paved  inner  court.  "  I  brought 
him  back  from  India  years  ago  as  my  personal  body 
guard,  and  a  more  loyal  and  faithful  one  none  ever  had. 
He  is  a  perfect  treasure,  never  absent,  and  never  in  the 
way;  clever,  honest,  alert,  and  passably  ornamental,  as 
you  see." 

"  He  looks  like  one  of  Barbedienne's  enamelled  bronzes," 
Olier  commented,  glancing  back  at  the  picturesque  fig 
ure  in  cream  and  blue  and  silver  bending  over  the  com 
plicated  lock  of  the  postern,  and  refastening  it  as  care 
fully  as  though  the  Fort  was  sustaining  a  siege.  "But  if 
they  meet  him  in  the  village  he  may  get  into  trouble." 

"Nonsense!"  she  exclaimed,  incredulously. 

"Not  in  the  least.  You  have  forgotten  your  Brittany, 
Lady  Clanvowe,  if  you  believe  that  the  good  people  here 
abouts  will  accept  him  meekly.  Last  year  they  behaved 
really  shockingly  to  a  Spahi  who  had  come  to  visit  a 
Breton  comrade  on  leave." 

"Ah!  but  that  must  have  been  a  Senegalian — a  negro." 

"Co1or  prejudices  are  a  trifle  wholesale  here.  Fortu 
nately  your  superb  attendant  looks  as  if  he  could  take 
care  of  himself.  Otherwise  I  would  advise  you  to  keep 
him  within  the  ramparts." 

They  had  reached  another  grudging  little  postern  open 
ing  directly  into  what  had  been  the  armory,  where  now 
the  stone  walls  were  hidden  beneath  wonderful  arras  and 

62 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  flagged  floor  by  a  heavy  carpet  of  harmonious  color. 
There  was  not  much  furniture,  but  every  single  piece 
was  authentically,  antiquely  Breton,  and  carved  from 
that  dark,  lustrous  pear  wood  which,  oddly  enough,  is 
apparently  no  longer  used,  and  has  therefore  become 
rarely  precious.  Masses  of  flowers  filled  every  available 
nook  and  corner,  foxglove  and  fern  mostly,  mixed  with 
other  blossoms  quite  undiscoverable  upon  that  barren 
coast.  Yet  the  huge  room  was  not  feminine  of  aspect. 
There  were  no  knick-knacks,  no  beribboned  cushions,  no 
frail  footstools  or  airy  trifles  of  any  sort:  only  a  few 
trophies  of  arms  disposed  against  the  grave-hued  tapestry 
supplied  a  clear  gleam  of  metal,  and,  marking  the  exact 
centre,  a  bronze  pedestal  rose  straight  and  slim,  support 
ing  a  beautiful  model  of  an  ancient  war-frigate  under  full 
spread  of  sail  in  massive  silver.  The  row  of  small,  high 
windows  had  been  widened  by  cutting  into  the  enormous 
ly  thick  masonry,  until  they  now  almost  touched,  form 
ing  a  wide  band  of  blue-and-amber  light  across  the  whole 
length  of  the  wall  facing  the  sea,  whose  all-pervading 
song  filled  the  room  with  a  melody  that  those  two  loved 
beyond  all  others. 

"You  have  worked  wonders!"  Olier  exclaimed,  looking 
admiringly  around. 

"What  merit  is  there  in  that,"  she  said,  simply,  "when 
money  is  no  object  at  all?" 

"A  fortunate  state." 

"Yes  and  no.  In  my  case,  yes,  perhaps,  because  my 
money  is  free  from  the  usual  responsibilities  of  wealth. 
Until  two  years  ago  I  was  almost  a  pauper  in  my  own 
right."  She  laughed,  and  continued:  "My  husband  is 
very  rich  in  his;  but  the  income  of  my  tiny  dowry  barely 
sufficed  to  pay  my  own  personal  expenses  .  .  .  which  was 
a  mercy,  for  I  have  no  patience  with  women  who  allow 

63 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

even  their  legal  owners  to  pay  for  their  clothes — it's  de 
grading." 

She  was  sitting  sidewise  on  the  arm  of  a  chair  opposite 
Olier  and  swinging  her  tiny  russet-shod  feet  slowly  to 
and  fro.  "The  question  of  befitting  dresses  used  to  be 
a  momentous  one  in  those  days,  I  can  tell  you,"  she  ex 
plained,  "because  it  costs  a  lot  when  one  is  forced  to  go 
out  much.  And  then  without  rhyme  or  reason  a  relative 
of  Hubert's,  an  aged  female  Harpagon,  surly,  crabbed, 
and  disagreeable  beyond  description,  left  me  her  colossal 
hoards,  because,  as  she  stated  in  her  will,  I  'had  never 
made  any  ingratiating  attempts  upon  her,'  and  'to  be  used 
for  myself  and  myself  alone.'  What  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"'Colossal'  hoards  sounds  good,"  Olier  smiled. 

"Oh,  'colossal'  is  the  word!  That  unamiable  old  lady, 
who  lived  on  bread  and  soup  in  two  rooms  of  a  ramshackle 
house,  seems  to  have  spent  her  eighty  allotted  years  in 
piling  up  golden  guineas  and  storing  priceless  gems." 

"I  congratulate  you." 

"Well,"  she  said,  speculatively,  "in  spite  of  what  I 
said  just  now,  I  have  not  yet  quite  made  up  my  mind 
whether  it  was  lucky  or  unlucky  for  me  to  become  so 
unexpectedly  one  of  the  richest  women  in  the  world. 
You  see,  there  is  that  uncomfortable  provision  about  the 
money  being  applied  to  my  sole  use.  Now,  I  cannot 
wear  cloth  of  silver  fringed  with  fine  pearls  all  day  long, 
can  I? — simplicity  being  a  besetting  sin  with  me!  Nat 
urally  I  do  not  take  the  clause  too  literally,  and  I  give 
away  a  great  deal.  But  do  what  I  will,  my  purse,  like 
the  Wandering  Jew's,  can  never  be  empty." 

"You  are  not  going  to  regret  it?"  Olier  wondered. 

"More  or  less,  yes.  Fancy  what  it  is  to  feel  so  much 
capital  getting  mouldy  on  one's  hands.  Hubert  is  such 

64 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

a  scrupulous  animal  that  he  absolutely  refuses  to  apply 
one  sou  of  it  to  the  estates;  besides  which,  we  have  no 
poor  people  near  Clanvowe  Hall  or  anywhere  else  on  our 
lands  —  none  at  all,  to  speak  of.  The  peasantry  live 
in  rose  -  garlanded  cottages  which  positively  make  one's 
mouth  water  with  envy.  And  as  to  financing  organized 
charities — no,  thank  you!" 

"You  don't  approve  of  organized  charities?" 

"  Rather  not.  Vanity  traps,  to  catch  mere  simpletons, 
or  socially  ambitious  persons  who  imagine  that  to  have 
their  names  published  broadcast,  opposite  an  imposing 
row  of  figures,  will  open  doors  closed  to  them.  It's  a 
sell  whichever  way  you  look  at  it.  But  you  must  be 
wondering  why  I  tell  you  all  this.  Truly,  I  have  not 
chattered  so  much  in  ten  years." 

"You  should  know  how  deeply  I  appreciate  the  favor 
you  do  me.  I  think  I  am  a  very  fortunate  individual." 

"Well,"  she  said,  absently,  after  a  pause,  "there  is 
something  in  that — not  about  your  being  a  favored  or  a 
fortunate  individual,  of  course,  though  I  suppose  that  to 
be  made  an  exception  of  is  to  the  exception's  credit  .  .  . 
but,  oh!"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  sliding  to  her  feet  and 
looking  at  him  with  shining  eyes,  "when  one  has  kept 
silent  for  so  very,  very  long  about  the  things  one  thinks 
of  most,  it  is  delicious  to  be  at  last  able  to  speak  them 
aloud  to  some  one  of  one's  own  race  and  breed  and  kind 
— a  real,  stubborn,  obstinate,  self-contained  dreamer  of  a 
Breton  like  one's  self.  No,  don't  say  anything;  I  am 
not  paying  you  much  of  a  compliment  this  time,  but  I 
seem  to  feel  at  home  with  you,  and  in  absolute  sympathy 
of  tastes  and  opinions  and  ideas,  which  is  a  great  deal." 
She  had  started  to  walk  up  and  down  in  front  of  him, 
and  he  did  not  even  get  up  from  his  chair,  convinced  that 
she  was  speaking  more  at  than  to  him,  and  that  any  move 

5  6S 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

on  his  part  might  interrupt,  if  not  actually  check,  this 
spontaneous  self-revelation  of  character. 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  make  you  understand,"  she  was 
saying,  "how  I  have  longed  for  Brittany?  Why,  not 
once  have  I  been  able  to  go  to  sleep  at  night  without 
hypnotizing  myself  into  the  belief  that  those  waves  below 
there  were  breaking  beneath  my  windows.  In  some 
parts  of  Ireland  and  Scotland,  on  the  moors  or  the  rocks, 
I  have  tried  to  trick  myself  into  believing  that  I  was  not 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  Channel;  but  even  with  closed 
eyes,  and  with  the  smell  of  the  kelp  or  the  gorse  and 
heather  in  my  nostrils  to  aid  the  illusion,  I  never  suc 
ceeded,  because  I  missed  that  nameless  something  which 
belongs  here  and  nowhere  else.  Whether  it  dwells  in  the 
air  or  not,  I  can't  tell.  Here  I  drink  my  fill  of  it  every 
second  out  of  the  twenty-four  hours  of  each  day.  Even 
the  little  pink  -  and  -  yellow  shells  on  the  beach  are  the 
keenest  pleasure  to  me.  And  now  you  come  across  my 
path,  and  the  mere  fashion  of  your  speech  brings  back 
to  me  the  feeling  that  I  am  once  more  Rouanez  de  Roz- 
kavel,  and  not  a  useless  mondaine  playing  a  part  for 
which  she  is  as  utterly  unfitted  as  a  sand-lark  to  sing  in 
a  cage.  That  is  why  I  am  treating  you  as  a  comrade, 
why  I,  in  the  most  unblushing  manner,  make  a  confidant 
of  you  from  the  first,  at  the  risk  of  your  thinking,  with 
some  shadow  of  reason,  that  I  have  not  escaped  the  con 
tagion  of  eccentricity  during  my  long  stay  in  England. 
I  have  starved — starved,  I  tell  you;  and  I  am  feasting 
now!  Never  mind,  though;  think  what  you  please.  It's 
of  no  consequence,  even  if  you  do  suppose  me  to  be  a  lit 
tle  unbalanced.  What  matters?" 

Olier's  heart  was  beating  queerly.  "Lady  Clan vo we," 
he  said,  rising  and  standing  before  her,  "I  have  never 
regretted  my  native  clumsiness  so  much  as  now,  when  I 

66 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

would  like  to  tell  you  how  deeply  touched  and  grateful  I 
am.  I — I — can  only  ask  you  to  accept  all — my — my  ut 
most  devotion — and  loyalty." 

"You  are  a  good  boy,  Olier  de  Frehel;  I  will  do  that 
joyfully,"  she  said,  smiling  up  at  him.  "But  you  must 
not  mistake  me  for  that  despicable  object,  a  femme  in- 
comprise.  I  have  the  best  and  dearest  of  husbands,  a 
brilliant  and  charming  man,  who  has  never  given  me  a 
moment's  intentional  worry  or  pain.  The  only  differ 
ence  of  opinion  between  us  is  that  he  likes  society,  and  all 
society  means,  while  I  don't.  He  would  wish  me  to  take 
more  pleasure  in  those  things  that  interest  him,  and  yet 
he  has  never  asked  me  to  attend  a  single  function  that 
he  could  spare  me,  and  has  allowed  me  to  seclude  myself 
whenever  it  was  at  all  possible  to  do  so.  Oh,  I  am  not 
easy  or  agreeable,  as  your  father  told  me  once  at  a  court- 
ball  in  Vienna:  '  Vous  n'etes  pas  facile  a  contenter,  chere 
madame,  car  enfin  ceci,  c'est  superbe!'  I  hear  him  now." 
She  paused,  gave  one  of  her  characteristic  little  laughs, 
and  resumed:  "He  was  a  Breton  of  the  Bretons,  too, 
your  father,  though  not  quite  as  much  as  you  are.  But 
now  let's  have  some  tea.  My  throat  is  as  dry  as  a  lime 
kiln,  which  proves  that  one  is  always  punished  for  talking 
too  much.  Please  ring  that  bell  near  the  chimney." 

Olier  obeyed,  and  then  slowly  came  back  to  the  broad 
window-seat  where  she  had  momentarily  poised  herself. 
His  brain  was  in  a  maze — a  pleasant  one  to  roam  through, 
but  none  the  less  puzzling  or  intricate  for  all  that  What 
a  captivating  companion  he  had  found! — so  singularly 
generous  and  whole-hearted.  He  would  have  wished  to 
tell  her  so,  but  doubtless  she  would  have  accused  him 
again  of  flattery,  and  he  was  glad  to  see  the  door  open 
in  answer  to  the  bell,  since  the  little  interruption  would 
give  him  time  to  collect  his  thoughts.  But,  as  he  might 

67 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

have  guessed,  it  only  offered  a  new  riddle  for  his  considera 
tion,  and,  instead  of  merely  glancing  at  the  man  who  en 
tered,  he  instinctively  scrutinized  him  sharply. 

Tall,  thin,  with  beneath  his  steel-gray  hair  a  face  per 
fectly  immobile  and  cold,  this  black-clad  attendant  would 
have  made  an  admirable  stage  ambassador.  Dignity 
could  surely  be  carried  no  further,  and  the  impassive 
expression  with  which  he  listened  to  his  mistress's  orders 
was  in  itself  a  chef  d'ceuvre  of  training.  At  the  green- 
carpeted  table  of  a  ministerial  council  such  a  countenance 
would  have  been  fittingly  surrounded.  But  in  the  trans 
formed  armory  of  a  dismantled  sea-fortress  it  seemed  dis 
tinctly  incongruous,  and  struck  Olier  as  the  first  metrical 
fault  of  the  Rozkavel  poem.  "What  in  the  world  did 
she  bring  such  a  personage  here  for?"  he  asked  himself. 
And  as  at  that  instant  the  object  of  his  wonder  glided 
away — gliding  he  thought  was  the  only  word  which  could 
express  that  silent,  apparently  weightless  tread — he  was 
on  the  point  of  putting  the  question  to  her,  when,  guessing 
his  thoughts,  as  she  had  already  done  once  or  twice,  she 
volunteered  the  explanation: 

"He  discords  a  little  in  the  symphony,  does  he  not?" 
she  said,  with  twinkling  eyes. 

"A  little,"  Olier  admitted. 

"No,  glaringly — much  more  so  than  Jwala-Singh  and 
his  turban,  who  are  at  least  deliciously  picturesque.  But 
Hubert  positively  venerates  him,  and  thinks  him  the 
only  being  capable  of  keeping  me  from  breaking  my  neck 
twenty  times  a  day  during  his  absence.  I  am  bound  to 
say  that  all  the  virtues  are  embodied  in  Grafton — but  he 
is  oppressive.  Still,  since  he  is  otherwise  perfect,  I  sub 
mit  to  his  protecting  airs,  as  it  reassures  Hubert." 

"He  reminded  me  of  the  Statue  du  Commandeur  just 
now,"  Olier  ventured,  repressing  a  smile. 

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THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"  Oh  no !  The  statue  is  a  bit  noisy  compared  to  Graf  ton. 
Grafton  is  the  very  cream  and  essence  of  silence.  I  wish 
he  would  smash  something  once  in  a  while,  or  bump 
against  a  piece  of  furniture  ...  to  break  the  monotony, 
if  nothing  else.  But  he  evolutes  with  a  machine-like 
precision  which  precludes  any  such  relief — it  is  hopeless! 
And  now  here  he  comes  again,"  she  finished,  in  a  whisper, 
as,  followed  by  two  footmen  bearing  a  fully  set  tea-table 
between  them,  Grafton  drifted  in,  and  stood  over  them 
until  the  correct  angle  had  been  attained  in  the  disposi 
tion  thereof,  and  a  glance  from  Lady  Clanvowe  indicated 
that  his  tutelary  presence  was  no  longer  indispensable 
to  her  comfort  and  happiness. 

"Ouf!"  she  breathed,  thankfully,  as  the  heavy  folds 
of  the  portiere  fell  together  after  him  and  his  satellites. 
"The  tea  will  taste  nicer  without  him." 

"That  is  sublimated  tea,"  Olier  declared,  gazing  ap 
provingly  at  the  frost-rimmed  crystal  cup,  wherein  the 
iced  and  lemoned  Golden  Pekoe  was  served. 

"Summer  tea,"  she  said,  smiling.  "Russian  summer 
tea,  if  you  insist  upon  a  title.  But  drink  it  quickly,  for 
I  have  yet  to  show  you  my  dogs,  my  flowers,  my  familiars, 
and,  in  one  word,  what  we  will  call  the  kernel  of  this  my 
fortress." 

The  tour  of  inspection  through  that  succession  of  rooms, 
one  more  original  than  the  other,  was  an  unusual  pleasure 
to  Olier,  who  at  once  became  firm  friends  with  Lady 
Clanvowe's  almost  constant  companions — "Feal"*  and 
"Fubuen,"f  a  Royal  Dane  and  a  bull-terrier  of  excep 
tional  beauty.  But  he  felt  the  greatest  interest  that  day 
in  what  she  called  her  "den" — a  vast  apartment  widely 
opened  to  the  light  of  waves  and  sun  by  deep-embrasured 

*  Faithful.  t  Gnat. 

69 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

windows,  and  which  taught  to  him  in  half  an  hour  more 
about  the  true  Rouanez  than  months  of  daily  intercourse 
could  have  done.  Every  object  there  seemed  to  have 
an  individual  little  voice  to  reveal  her  tastes,  occupa 
tions,  and  talents,  and  his  perceptions  were  keenly  alive 
to  each  and  every  one  of  this  concert  of  hints. 

"You  are  very  fond  of  sport,"  he  said  once,  pausing 
before  a  panoply  of  curious  weapons. 

"Of  some  kinds  of  sport,  very,"  she  answered.  "But 
I  do  not  shoot  at  live  targets,  and  neither  hunt  nor  fish, 
though  I  can  never  have  enough  of  sailing,  riding,  swim 
ming — or  walking,  either — if  that  is  sport!" 

He  understood  without  further  explanation,  and  si 
lently  added  one  more  item  to  the  already  long  tally  of 
her  qualities.  For,  like  most  manly  men,  he  abhorred  the 
woman  who  prides  herself  on  possessing  a  "virile"  vein 
of  cruelty,  and  struts  "with  the  guns,"  greedy  for  the 
blood  of  pretty  wood  and  field  creatures. 

"  You  will  like  my  little  '  K  s  r  1 '  even  better  than  this," 
she  said,  suddenly  interrupting  his  mental  enumeration, 
as  they  paused  for  a  moment  in  one  of  the  deep  windows. 
"That's  my  yacht,  and  as  soon  as  she  returns  from  her 
present  foraging  expedition  you'll  have  to  give  me  your 
naval-officer's  opinion  about  her." 

He  drew  a  quick  breath,  and  turned  away  rather 
brusquely  from  her  scrutinizing  glance.  What  would 
she  say,  he  thought,  with  a  sudden  sinking  of  the  heart, 
if  she  knew  how  the  mere  mention  of  his  profession 
galled  him  —  she  who  seemed  to  hold  honor  and  duty  so 
high? 

"Poor  old  France,"  she  said,  softly,  looking  down  the 
jagged  line  of  coast  sweeping  eastward  to  the  Breton 
frontier — "poor  old  France.  What  a  holocaust  of  splen 
dors  is  going  on  there!" 

70 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"What  made  you  say  that?"  he  exclaimed,  almost 
roughly,  starting  at  the  intonation  of  the  words. 

"You  would  think  me  unpleasantly  meddlesome  if  I 
were  to  tell  you,"  she  replied,  calmly  continuing  to  gaze 
in  the  direction  of  the  far-distant  Loire-country. 

"  Yet  you  told  me  awhile  ago  that  we  were  to  be  friends 
and  comrades."  There  was  disappointment  and  a  touch 
of  irritation  in  his  tone. 

"My  poor  boy,"  she  said,  dropping  her  hand  for  a  sec 
ond  lightly  on  his  sleeve,  "did  you  imagine  I  supposed 
you  to  feel  comfortable  beneath  the  unfolding  flag  of 
anarchy  ?  The  tricolor  passe-encore,  but  that  .  .  .  !  I  am 
not  utterly  dense,  and  when  I  see  a  young  and  healthy 
man,  and  a  sailor  at  that — passionately  fond  of  his  pro 
fession — apply  for  a  year's  leave  to  come  and  brood  it 
away  alone,  as  you  are  doing,  I  am  able  to  account  for 
that  furrow  between  your  eyebrows,  which  has  no  busi 
ness  there  at  your  age,  and  also  to  guess  the  cause  by  the 
signs." 

His  broad  shoulder  was  turned  toward  her  with  sin 
gular  rudeness,  some  uninitiated  observer  might  have 
thought,  yet  she  spoke  on,  in  the  ordinary  manner  of  a 
person  discussing  the  current  topics  of  the  hour:  "You 
have  evidently  puzzled  your  brain  past  endurance  in 
trying  to  disentangle  a  hopelessly  tangled  problem.  It 
is  no  use,  believe  me.  I  could  stand  here  and  discuss 
the  subject  with  you  for  a  year  and  get  no  further  than 
that.  It  is  no  use." 

"Tell  me,  for  God's  sake,  what  I  am  to  do,  then,"  he 
said,  without  turning  toward  her,  "since  you  have  divined 
so  much?" 

"I  cannot  do  that  now,"  she  said. 

"Why  not?"  came  in  the  same  repressed  voice. 

"Because  I  do  not  know  you  well  enough  yet,  and,  of 

71 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

course,  have  not  thought  it  all  sufficiently  over.     As  it  is, 
I  have  not  done  badly,  have  I?" 

"  Will  you  be  my  conscience  when  you  have  done  both 
.  .  .  will  you  help  me?" 

"I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you,  but  our  consciences  are, 
I  fear,  too  similar  to  work  well  in  unison,  unless  we  re 
verse  the  proverb  and  hold  that  two  affirmatives  make  a 
negative,  which  does  not  sound  very  promising." 

"You  must  think  me  strangely  unconventional,"  he 
said,  after  a  short  silence,  turning  at  last  and  looking  at 
her  with  troubled  eyes. 

"  No,  I  do  not.  I  want  you  to  say  what  you  think  to 
me,  to  come  and  go  here  as  you  please,  and  to  remember 
that  I  was  your  mother's  friend.  By-the-way,"  she  con 
tinued,  in  a  lighter  manner,  "I  am  going  to  call  you 
Olier.  I  never  use  empty  formulae  with  those  I  like." 

And  presently  he  left  her — in  the  deep  embrasure,  with 
her  two  dogs  gravely  sitting  at  her  knee  and  the  boister 
ous  breeze  blowing  her  hair  into  little  waves  of  silver — 
to  stride  off  aimlessly  along  the  edge  of  the  lande. 

On  and  on  he  walked,  never  once  thinking  of  the  miles 
he  left  behind  him,  until  the  quickening  dusk  began  to 
mark  the  lateness  of  the  hour.  The  sun  had  set  some 
time  before,  and  huge  copper-red  columns  of  crinkled 
cloud  slanted  up  from  below  the  horizon  clear  across  a 
sky  of  dull,  dead  turquoise,  soft  to  the  eye  as  purest  velvet. 
A  low  skeny,  reaching  far  out  into  the  sleepy  sea,  attracted 
him,  and,  making  his  way  to  its  utmost  end,  he  sat  down 
on  a  flat,  gray  rock  to  watch  the  gorgeous  West  fade  to 
ashinc^s.  One  by  one  the  stars  appeared,  and  untiringly 
he  waited  and  watched  them,  following,  perhaps  for  the 
first  time  since  childhood,  the  old  Breton  custom  of  tell 
ing  his  beads  upon  those  little  twinkling  worlds  shining 
above  in  the  darkening  azure. 

72 


CHAPTER  VI 

Up  from  the  darkling  cloud  that  lay  above  the  wreck  of  Rome, 
Flung  forth  to  stormy  centuries,  a  trail  upon  the  foam 
Of  fire,  there  sprang  a  flashing  Star,  by  deathless  Fate's  decrees 
The  Lode-Light  of  the  living  world,  the  glorious  Fleur-de-Lys. 

This  in  the  wild  Crusading  roar  shook  out  "  Our  God's  command," 
This  lit  with  strength  the  ghastly  track  across  the  Syrian  sand, 
This  wavered  with  the  vulture-wings  o'er  thousand  battles  won, 
From  Dorylaium's  field  of  fame  to  leaguered  Ascalon. 

This  bound  the  hero-brows  that  met  the  Moslem's  victor  powers, 
This  clad  Du  Guesclin's  silent  breast  beneath  the  vanquished 

towers, 
This  filled  the  gaze  of  frenzied  throngs,  that  mad  and  madder 

swayed 
As  sea-like  thunders  swelled  to  greet  the  banners  of  the  Maid. 

On  high,  on  high,  it  flamed  the  sky,  unbroken  and  unbowed, 
And  struggling  oft  from  pale  eclipse  within  a  misty  shroud, 
Cast  over  wreckful  Circumstance,  to  burning  song  and  pen, 
An  endless  mirror-path  of  steel  for  strong  and  knightly  men! 

And  brightly  bloomed  a  smiling  land  behind  the  warrior-shield, 
The  envious  ages  stood  to  mark  the  foison  of  her  yield, 
Order  and  Honor  kept  her  gates,  and  Kingship  held  the  keys, 
But  ne'er  a  laggard  sword  to  shame  the  sacred  Fleur-de-Lys. 

No  force  was  then,  my  France,  my  France,  thy  will  to  bind  or 
break, 

Then  was  no  foreign  menace  made  a  coward  mob  to  quake; 

The  banded  nations  whispered  war,  but  how  they  cried  for  peace 

When  shimmering  squadrons  fiercely  surged  beneath  the  Fleur- 
de-Lys! 

73 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

And  shall  the  Star  be  quenched  for  aye  in  clouds  of  base  desires, 
The  folk  imagine  empty  things  and  follow  wandering  fires  ? 
Sans  Loyalty  there  is  no  Law,  there  is  a  faith  that  frees; 
Down  the  red  rag  of  Anarchy,  God  save  the  Fleur-de-Lys! 

The  Song  of  the  Fleur-de-Lys. — M.  M. 

"AND  I  hear,  Miladi,  that  you  think  of  remaining  all 
the  summer  in  this  dismal  hole.  Surely  Trouville  or 
Etretat,  or  some  other  brilliant  bathing  -  resort,  would 
have  suited  a  lady  of  your  consummate  elegance  better." 

"There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes — especially  British 
tastes,  Monsieur.  We  are  credited  with  being  all  more 
or  less  eccentric  across  the  Channel,  are  we  not?" 

Even  Senator  Dulac's  pachydermatous  vanity  had  not 
been  quite  proof  against  Lady  Clanvowe's  frosty  polite 
ness  during  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour,  for  he  was  not  a 
stupid  man,  and  he  was  beginning  to  regret  having  forced 
himself  upon  her  cherished  privacy.  At  the  beginning 
of  this  thorny  visit  a  vague  sense  of  his  audacity  had 
exaggerated  his  habitual  pompousness  into  something 
almost  resembling  patronage,  but  swift  retribution  was 
now  overtaking  him,  and  he  was  instinctively  lowering 
his  tone. 

"Depend  upon  it,  you  will  die  of  ennui  here,"  he  re 
sumed,  dangling  exasperatingly  the  chain  of  his  pince-nez 
to  keep  himself  in  countenance.  He  never  wore  it,  since 
his  small,  keen  eyes  needed  no  such  aid.  "You  are  miles 
from  the  nearest  chateau,  and  you  will  soon  find  the  place 
untenable." 

"I  am  never  bored  when  I  am  alone,"  she  said,  coolly, 
"which  explains  why  I  have  taken  Rozkavel.  I  had 
hoped  that  it  would  be  inaccessible  to  visitors." 

The  complexion  of  this  shepherd  of  the  people  had  long 
since  retired  from  business  as  a  background  for  blushes, 
and  at  this  direct  thrust  he  was  fain  to  content  himself 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

with  moving  uneasily  in  his  chair  as  a  relief  to  his  feelings, 
gazing  fixedly  the  while  at  the  tightly  gloved  sausages 
which  did  him  duty  as  fingers. 

"She  treats  me  like  a  sweep,"  he  was  thinking,  "but 
she  won't  drive  me  away  till  I  have  found  out  something 
more  about  her."  And  aloud  he  said:  "It  cannot  be 
the  first  time  you  are  in  France,  Miladi,  for  you  speak 
our  language  with  a  purity  not  to  be  acquired  abroad." 

"Oh,  I  have  often  been  in  France,  but  I  thought  we 
were  talking  of  Brittany." 

"It's  the  same  thing." 

"Not  in  the  least." 

"How  do  you  mean,  Miladi?  Surely  you  are  aware 
that  we  have  erased  all  petty  frontiers,  and  that  our 
great  country  is  now  one  and  indivisible." 

"I  know,  as  everybody  else  does,  that  you  have  tried 
to  do  so,"  she  explained,  with  a  curious  little  ripple  in 
her  voice. 

"Permit  me  to  correct  this  erroneous  impression,"  the 
Senator  put  in,  straightening  his  bulky  person  with  re 
viving  importance.  "We  have  accomplished  an  unprece 
dented  change  throughout  our  rebellious  provinces." 

"Not  for  the  better,  unfortunately,"  she  calmly  stated, 
observing  with  pleasure  his  budding  irritation. 

"What!"  he  cried;  "you  do  not  think  that  the  sub 
duing  of  disaffected  departments  is  praiseworthy  ?  Why, 
we've  got  these  obstinate  brutes  here  under  such  control 
that  I  can  report  to  the  government  with  perfect  truth 
that  the  spirit  of  the  inhabitant  is  satisfactory.  Do  you 
call  this  nothing,  Miladi?"  She  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
and,  goaded  by  the  action,  he  started  off  again  without 
giving  her  a  chance  to  answer  his  question  in  words. 

"Their  beastly  patois  is  being  eradicated,  their  idiotic 
superstitions  will  soon  be  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  within 

75 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

an  easily  computable  time  we  will  have  succeeded  in  lev 
elling  all  Brittany  to  our  own — " 

"Flatness?"  Lady  Clanvowe  suggested. 

"Really,  Miladi!"  gasped  the  politician. 

"Really!"  she  echoed,  mockingly.  "Oh  no,  not  really, 
perhaps  only  apparently,  and  even  that  it  is  permissible 
to  doubt.  Moreover,  if  ever  you  should  accomplish  your 
purpose,  you  will  only  be  by  so  much  the  nearer  to  ruin — 
for  yourselves  and  your  country." 

"In  what  way,  pray?" 

"In  every  possible  one,"  she  replied.  "Had  you,  who 
are  at  the  head  of  affairs,  troubled  to  use  a  little  judg 
ment  and  tact — a  very  little,  mind  you — you  would  have 
seen  at  once  that  you  are  doing  your  best  to  break  the 
real  backbone  of  France,  with  the  usual  crippling  re 
sult.  Your  short-sighted  policy  —  if  one  can  ennoble 
wild  work  of  that  description  by  so  high-sounding  a 
name — has  overlooked  the  fact,  patent  to  all  intelligent 
statesmen — for  there  are  still  a  few  foreign  ones — that 
Brittany,  with  a  trifling  amount  of  humoring,  might  have 
been  made  to  play  the  useful  part  in  your  none-too- 
healthy  system  that  a  well-set-up  backbone  always  does. 
Now,  however,  you  have  antagonized  your  best  province 
— since  province  you  call  it — past  all  possible  reconcilia 
tion.  The  deliberate  effort  to  destroy  one  of  the  oldest 
and  finest  languages  in  Europe,  which  you  graciously  de 
scribe  as  a  'patois,'  the  blows  dealt  at  the  beautiful  and 
helpful  faiths  which  are  mere  'odious  superstitions/  ac 
cording  to  you,  are  your  crowning  mistakes.  And  let 
me  hope,  for  your  sakes,  that  you  may  never  discover 
what  the  'conquered'  race  can  prove  to  be,  if  it  ever  takes 
the  bit  between  its  teeth." 

The  Senator  had  listened  with  open  mouth  to  this  con 
fession  of  opinion,  and,  even  when  she  ceased  speaking, 

76 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

remained  for  several  seconds  silent,  visibly  at  a  loss  for 
words — an  interval  which  Rouanez  employed  in  picturing 
to  herself  the  amused  smile  with  which  her  husband  had 
greeted  similar  lapses  from  true  diplomatic  poise  in  the  past. 

"You  seem  to  have  studied  the  question  with  surpris 
ing  assiduity,  Miladi,"  the  bewildered  Dulac  managed  at 
last  to  say.  He  knew  little  of  the  English,  except  that 
they  were  an  easy-going  Protestant  people,  afflicted  with 
a  sentimental  liberalism  which  had  made  their  country 
the  asylum  par  excellence  of  political  criminals.  Such 
sentiments  as  she  had  just  expressed  were  rarely  audible 
at  his  exalted  height,  but  as  an  Anti-Catholic  and  "  Lib 
eral"  he  found  them  doubly  astonishing  in  the  mouth  of 
one  of  the  Islanders. 

"I  have  a  natural  inclination  toward  lost  causes,  even 
when  they  in  no  wise  concern  me,"  she  replied,  with  ap 
parent  flippancy. 

"But,"  the  other  ventured,  in  a  tone  far  more  humble 
than  he  had  used  until  then,  "don't  you  sometimes  make 
enemies  for  yourself?" 

"All  the  time.     It's  one  of  my  chief  occupations." 

"I  suppose  an  aristocrat  like  you  is  above  caring  for 
public  opinion?" 

"Oh,  entirely.  But  so  must  you  be,  by-the-way,  or  else 
your  roughshod  riding  over  popular  feelings  can  scarcely 
be  accounted  for." 

"On  the  contrary,  it  is  pure  devotion  to  a  great  and 
noble  idea  that  actuates  us,  We  seek  by  sure  means  to 
instruct  those  who  need  instruction  most." 

Lady  Clanvowe  laughed  outright.  "Bravo,  Monsieur 
le  Senateur!"  she  said,  with  exquisite  mockery.  "You 
may  end  by  believing  what  you  say,  if  you  say  it  often 
enough.  Only  you  had  better  double  the  blinkers  you 
have  put  over  your  eyes." 

77 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"We  see  clearly  enough  for  our  purpose  the  havoc 
your  highfaluting  patrician  principles  have  worked," 
he  retorted,  really  angry  now.  "Sincerely,  you  cannot 
claim  that  the  nobles  have  played  a  pretty  role  in  France, 
especially  since  the  Revolution." 

"Since  the  Revolution?  Most  of  them  assuredly  have 
not,"  she  calmly  rejoined. 

"Ha!     You  admit  that?" 

"Certainly.  But  it  appears  to  me  that  you  have  heard 
enough  unpleasant  truths  for  one  sitting,  and  as  I  par 
ticularly  dislike  offending  any  one  under  my  roof-tree" 
— she  glanced  quizzically  at  the  massive  stone  ceiling — "  I 
think  we  had  better  stop  now." 

"  Not  by  any  means!"  he  hotly  exclaimed.  "  For,  once 
that  I  am  able  to  see  the  other  side  of  the  medal,  I'm  not 
going  to  be  such  a  fool  as  to  let  you  off  like  that.  Fire 
away!  I  want  to  know  what  those  duffers  say  of  us 
outside  France." 

The  elegance  of  his  phraseology  filled  Lady  Clanvowe 
with  such  delight  that  she  suddenly  turned  upon  him 
an  almost  amiable  face. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  repressing  her  amusement,  "see 
ing  that  I  did  not  ask  you  here,  I  may  argue  that  wider 
latitude  in  outspokenness  is  allowed  to  me,  and,  since 
you  insist,  I  will  avail  myself  of  it.  On  one  point 
only  I  partially  agree  with  you.  The  representatives  of 
France's  old  aristocracy  have  done  little  or  nothing  to 
stem  the  muddy  current  of  anarchy,  because  they  were 
and  mostly  are  so  desperately  poor.  Of  the  rest  we  can 
make  two  heaps.  The  'rallies1  to  the  Napoleons  or  to 
the  Republic,  who  have  in  so  doing  lost  all  right  to  call 
themselves  nobles,  and  the  unspeakable  villains  and  de 
generates  who,  by  selling  their  ancient  names  and  pros 
tituting  both  blood  and  honor  by  degrading  marriages, 

78 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

have  found  a  shorter  and  dirtier  road  to  prosperity. 
There  are  black  sheep  in  every  flock,  and  we  needn't 
talk  of  those — " 

"Who  have  bowed  down  befors  the  Golden  Calf?"  the 
the  Senator  interrupted. 

"No,  the  Brazen  Serpent — the  original  dollar-sign,  by- 
the-way — to  stay  the  plague  of  poverty;  and  those  have 
stooped  so  low  that  it  is  impossible  for  them  ever  to  get 
up  again.  You  will  argue,  it  goes  without  saying,  that 
there  are  some  nobles  left  who  are  neither  too  poor  nor 
too  dishonored  to  come  forward  in  defence  of  their  beliefs 
and  creeds.  But  these  are  not  only  hopelessly  in  the 
minority,  they  have  also  allowed  themselves  to  become 
infected  by  the  universal  je  m'en  fichisme  of  the  age,  and 
this  is  why  I  would  divide  the  responsibility  for  the  ruin 
that  is  fast  overtaking  France  almost  in  halves  between 
them  and  you." 

"You  are  severe  to  us." 

"No,  just— which  is  terribly  difficult  in  the  face  of 
what  one  sees.  You  are  making  France  the  laughing 
stock  of  Europe  —  France,  which  was  once  the  greatest 
country  of  all — and  that  must  cause  all  decent  people,  what 
ever  their  creed  or  nationality,  to  look  askance  at  you." 

"You  hate  and  despise  all  republics,  evidently." 

"Not  in  the  least.  They  are  all  admirable — in  the 
abstract — and  I  have  even  seen  one  or  two  in  working 
order.  But  what  I  do  despise  is  unfairness  of  any  sort, 
and  your  particular  Republic,  that  knows  neither  freedom 
nor  equity,  is  a  mere  farce." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  not  French,  Miladi,"  he  said,  look 
ing  for  the  first  time  straight  at  her. 

"Why,  please?" 

"Simply  because  you  might  prove  a  dangerous  mal 
content  and  a  too-con vincingly  eloquent  one." 

79 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"You  overwhelm  me!"  she  said,  freezing  up  again 
immediately. 

"Not  at  all.  Not  at  all,"  he  protested,  with  an  unctu 
ous  wave  of  one  pearl-gray-kid  hand.  "You  would,  in 
deed." 

"Fortunately  my  being  English  must  reassure  you  on 
that  point,  and  there  is  only  one  other  to  which  I  care  to 
draw  your  attention.  I  have  come  here,  Monsieur  le 
Sewateur,  to  enjoy  a  well  -  earned  rest,  and  I  would  be 
obliged  to  you  if  you  were  kind  enough  to  tell  all  those 
who,  like  yourself,  might  conceive  the  gracious  thought 
of  brightening  my  solitude,  that  under  no  circumstances 
will  I  make  any  more  exceptions,  and  that  my  doors  are 
shut  for  good."  She  rose,  and,  clumsily  following  her 
example,  the  great  Dulac,  sadly  diminished  even  in  his 
own  magnificent  esteem,  stood  for  a  second  staring  at  her. 

"No  wonder  we  hate  your  class  as  we  do!"  he  suddenly 
said,  in  a  burst  of  angry  frankness. 

"It's  a  pity  you  don't  always  speak  like  that,"  she  ap 
proved.  "  One  could  endure  you  so  much  more  agreeably." 

"That's  altogether  the  most  extraordinary  woman  I 
ever  met,"  Dulac  commented,  as,  enthroned  in  his  puffing, 
reeking,  forty  -  thousand-franc  motor-car,  he  whirled  in  a 
choking  dust-cloud  along  the  indifferently  kept  chausse'e 
toward  the  Brest  road — an  emblem,  had  he  but  known  it, 
of  modern  civilization,  which  dashes  on  to  the  object  of 
the  moment,  childishly  delighted  with  its  own  speed  and 
distributing  dust  and  a  bad  smell.  "I  was  a  fool  to 
force  her  to  receive  me,"  he  thought  again,  "and  yet  I 
don't  regret  the  experience.  .  .  .  Still,  I'd  like  to  know  why 
she  bought  Rozkavel  from  us — for  she  has  bought,  and 
not  rented  it  as  she  pretends.  Ah,  it's  about  time  to 
demolish  what's  left  of  those  beastly  aristocrats!" 

80 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Le  vilain  bonhomme!"  Lady  Clanvowe  was  at  that 
very  instant  saying,  aloud.  "  Pouah!"  She  threw  some 
powdered  amber  on  a  perfume  -  burner,  opened  every 
single  window  in  the  room  with  hasty  hands,  and,  snatch 
ing  up  her  sailor-cap,  flew  down  to  the  beach  to  get  away 
from  what  she  considered  a  "  Dulacian  atmosphere"  as 
speedily  as  possible. 

During  the  past  weeks  she  had  lost  much  of  her  first 
joy  and  enthusiasm  at  being  once  more  on  her  native 
soil.  At  every  turn  some  new  discovery  wounded  or 
enraged  her,  and,  pacing  up  and  down  the  wet  shingle, 
as  she  had  often  done  of  late,  she  began  to  fret  and  worry 
anew.  Like  Olier,  she  wondered  whether  nothing  could 
really  be  done  before  the  hopeless  words  "too  late" 
stared  Brittany  in  the  face.  Brittany  had  always  been 
the  little  handful  of  salt  that  leavened  all  France.  But 
the  salt  was  melting  fast,  and,  when  it  was  gone,  what 
then?  What  were  all  right-minded  people  thinking  of? 
Laisser-faire,  veulerie,  a  total  want  of  energy  and  pride, 
seemed  to  spread  each  day  more  and  more  among  the 
discouraged  higher  classes. 

"  Les  ex-dirigeants"  she  muttered,  pushing  with  the  tip 
of  her  foot  a  huge  medusa,  abandoned  by  the  tide  to 
melt  and  shrivel  in  the  sun.  There  was  still  a  faint  hint 
of  the  vivid  azure  and  deep  rose-pink  which  frilled  its 
soft  transparency  when  it  floated  like  a  great  opalescent 
bell  "between  two  waters,"  and  she  asked  herself  whether 
it  could  still  be  revived  again.  "It's  a  toss-up,"  she  said 
aloud,  seized  by  a  fancy  for  superstitious  experiment  that 
often  assailed  her;  and,  promptly  drawing  on  the  leathern 
gloves  she  always  carried  in  her  pocket  for  similar  fishy 
ventures,  she  lifted  the  drooping,  trembling  mass  in  both 
hands,  carefully  avoiding  to  tear  or  damage  it,  and  ran 
across  the  rocks  to  a  broad  pool  sunk  in  the  sea-weed, 

6  8l 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

beside  which  she  knelt  down  to  slide  it  in.  For  what 
seemed  to  her  a  long  time,  the  limp  jelly  remained  inert ; 
then,  imperceptibly,  it  began  to  pulsate,  and  one  by  one 
its  dainty  skirts  spread  out,  expanding  fold  by  fold,  until 
at  last,  gloriously  tinted  again  and  shining,  the  living 
omen  oscillated  above  the  dusky  bed  of  green  Venus- 
hair  carpeting  the  pool. 

"Not  too  late!  Not  too  late!"  Rouanez  cried,  jumping 
up  and  clapping  her  hands  together.  "  The  next  tide  will 
carry  it  back  to  its  home  again ;  but  its  luck  remains  with 
me!"  And,  inexplicably  encouraged  and  comforted,  she 
went  back  to  resume  her  quarter-decking  on  the  shingle. 

Extremely  fair-minded  in  all  things,  Lady  Clanvowe 
was  in  the  habit  of  debating  with  herself  the  questions 
that  interested  her,  consciously  trying  to  consider  them 
from  every  point  of  view.  Now  Brittany  and  Brittany's 
fortunes  had  been  her  chief  preoccupation  ever  since  she 
had  been  old  enough  to  form  an  opinion,  but  even  her 
most  judicial  attitude  had  been  unable  to  render  the  idea 
of  a  republic  in  connection  with  this  old  Celtic  land  other 
than  absurd.  Time  and  usage,  however,  had  begun  to 
dull  the  sense  of  this  incongruity  between  the  two,  when 
the  former's  persecution  of  the  latter  had  revived  and 
sharpened  it  to  a  keenness  never  previously  felt.  Long 
before  er  return  from  England,  reports  of  the  govern 
ment's  abuses  of  power — abuses  so  continuous  and  varied 
as  to  show  that  a  systematic  and  aggressive  oppression 
was  directed  against  the  people  of  her  race  and  kin — 
had  roused  her  unforgiving  anger.  But  now  that  she 
was  able  to  see  for  herself  the  lengths  to  which  the  author 
ities  were  going,  her  fighting  blood  began  to  stir  in  good 
earnest. 

How  could  it  be  possible  that  all  that  was  honorable 
and  true  in  France,  regardless  of  birth  and  creed,  did  not 

82 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

rise  in  indignant  protest  against  such  injustice  committed 
in  the  name  of  liberty  ?  After  all,  the  questions  involved 
were  not  merely  local,  but  of  vital  interest  to  the  country 
at  large.  The  pressure  bore  heaviest  upon  Brittany  only 
because  there  the  state  of  things  which  the  party  in 
power  sought  to  destroy  found  its  pre-eminent  example. 
Protest,  indeed,  of  a  sort,  was  not  lacking  throughout  the 
land.  Men  of  all  classes,  even  those  who  by  birth,  edu 
cation,  and  belief  were  diametrically  opposed  to  the  in 
stinctive  and  hereditary  Catholic  Legitimists,  denounced 
the  governmental  lack  of  policy  in  unmeasured  terms. 
And  yet  nobody  dared  to  act  in  open  opposition.  Wordy 
bathos?  Oh,  there  was  a  plethora  of  that;  but  action? 
Even  the  famous  Nationalist  Party  had  merely  contrived 
to  cover  itself  with  ridicule  whenever  occasion  presented. 

"How  long  is  it  to  be  endured?"  she  asked  of  a  sand 
piper,  who,  startled  by  her  voice,  brought  up  on  one 
slim  leg  for  a  second,  and  then,  with  a  contemptuous 
shrug  of  his  dark-pointed  wings,  resumed  his  erratic,  tail- 
jerking  progression,  without  paying  further  attention  to 
this  inquisitive  human  being.  He  might  have  been  a 
French  Cabinet-Minister,  for  all  the  impression  a  sane 
question  produced  upon  him. 

"Happy  bird,"  thought  Rouanez,  as  she  wearily  re 
turned  to  her  irksome  musings,  "who  can  enjoy  life  ac 
cording  to  his  own  ideas!"  There  were  so  many  people 
in  France  now  whose  simple  and  harmless  beliefs  and 
modes  of  existence  were  being  assailed  by  intolerance 
armed  with  power. 

Eighteen  thousand  educational  institutions  of  the  Church 
closed,  the  hospitals,  both  civil  and  military,  deprived  of 
their  admirable  nursing  sisterhoods,  the  wishes  of  the  dead 
coolly  set  at  naught  by  the  passing  of  the  latest  Devolu 
tion  Bill — nothing  less  than  legalized  sacrilege  and  rob- 

83 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

bery,  that  one — crimes  large  and  small  against  the  inno 
cent  and  the  defenceless !  Even  with  an  effort  she  could 
not  dismiss  the  long  list  from  her  mind,  nor  its  black  and 
bitter  import.  France  alone,  for  all  that  she  cared,  might 
take  the  shortest  road  to  complete  marasmus,  if  fallen 
France  so  desired;  but  what  of  poor  little  rock-strewn, 
stout-hearted  Brittany,  then  ?  A  shiver  ran  between  her 
shoulders.  A  people  of  peoples,  so  brave  and  loyal  and 
pure-minded  and  stanch — her  Bretons;  difficult  to  turn 
from  the  right  path,  but,  when  once  led  astray,  worse  than 
the  worst  in  their  terrible  violence  and  recklessness;  grim 
and  unrelenting  and  hard  as  their  own  menhirs.  They 
had  borne  poverty  and  privation  with  uncomplaining 
courage,  and  their  faith  and  loyalty  had  remained  un 
shaken  through  countless  trials  and  tribulations,  but  she 
knew  what  would  be  the  result  of  a  long-continued  course 
of  the  present  treatment,  and  that  result  was  no  pretty 
one  to  contemplate. 

For  several  days  she  had  not  seen  Olier  de  Frehel.  That 
night  he  was  to  dine  with  her,  and  she  suddenly  made 
up  her  mind  to  withdraw  from  his  path  the  tacit  barrier 
which  she  had  built  up  across  the  road  to  confidences. 
She  had  wished  to  study  him  for  a  while  before  allowing 
him  to  speak;  but  the  need  of  a  second  opinion  upon  the 
subject  of  her  vexatious  cogitations  was  making  itself 
so  strongly  fel  that  it  decided  her  to  provoke,  if  necessary, 
a  full  revelation  of  his  views. 

With  a  lighter  heart  she  paused  to  watch  a  flock  of  gulls 
wheeling  on  lissome  wings  above  the  edge  of  the  tide,  and 
presently  followed  them  out  along  the  already  half-sub 
merged  chain  of  rocks,  that  stretches  its  bizarre  length 
from  the  shore  to  what  has  been  known  immemorially  by 
the  curiously  Arabic  name  of  Le  Tombeau  d'Almanzo? — a 
huge,  gray  stone  not  unlike  some  monument  fashioned  by 

84 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

human  hands.  In  a  moment  she  had  escaladed  the  steep 
side  of  the  great  block,  and  was  inhaling  deeply  the  in 
vigorating  breeze,  all  laden  with  the  scent  of  violets  and 
fresh  brine,  and  bruised,  stranded  marine  growths,  which 
is  the  particular  savor  of  that  coast.  The  sea  was  smooth 
as  a  floor,  and  of  a  faint,  pearly  hue,  striped  near  the  in 
distinguishable  horizon  by  delicate  breeze-marks  and  cloud 
shadows  into  rich  moire  effects,  so  that  a  far-away  steamer 
with  its  plume  of  gray  smoke  seemed  to  be  retreating, 
hull-down,  in  the  sky.  For  half  an  hour  she  scanned  the 
vast  half-circle  of  water  with  expectant  eyes,  as  the  "Kes 
trel"  was  due  from  another  foraging  expedition;  but  no 
sign  of  the  graceful  white  yacht  was  visible  to  its  eager 
captain,  who  vainly  narrowed  her  keen  eyes  beneath  her 
hand  to  search  the  vagueness  of  the  sea-rim,  and  finally, 
with  an  impatient  little  sigh,  swung  herself  down  to  the 
rugged  causeway  and  ran  home  to  dress  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Safety  or  rest  is  none;  the  deep,  expanding 
Dark  under  beetling  cloud,  without  a  sail, 

Blind,  helpless  power  void  of  understanding, 
Heaves  at  the  fret  of  every  passing  gale. 

Cry,  then,  "A  Cliff  to  breast  the  Sea!"  my  brothers — 
"The  King!" 

The  land  is  sick,  beholding  fevered  visions 
Of  Greed  and  Envy  hard  to  be  endured, 

And  o'er  her  trouble  shout  uncouth  physicians 
By  worse  infection  shall  the  ill  be  cured. 

Give  us  the  Hand  whose  touch  can  heal,  my  brothers — 
The  King! 

Avaunt  the  "science"  babblers  make  a  trade  of! 

By  weakling  pens  shall  Want  and  War  be  banned? 
States  are  not  built  on  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of, 

Nor  is  foundation  in  the  shifting  sand. 
Pledge  me  the  Corner-Stone  true-laid,  my  brothers — 
The  King! 

Despoiled  of  strength,  forgot  their  ancient  chrism, 

The  storied  towers  are  sinking  day  by  day; 
Then,  ere  the  ruin  reach  the  red  abysm, 

Rise!  and  with  fiery  thought  beyond  dismay, 
Gripping  the  sword-hilt,  cry  to  God,  my  brothers, 
"The  King!" 

The  King. — M.  M. 

THE  dinner  was  neither  long  nor  elaborate,  for  Rouanez 
always  considered  time  spent  at  table  a  wicked  waste, 
and,  although  careful  of  the  menu  for  her  young  guest's 
sake,  she  gave  far  more  attention  to  the  beautiful  sulphur- 

86 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

colored  carnations  of  the  surtout  than  to  the  admirably 
prepared  dishes. 

"Come  to  my  den,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  the  dessert- 
plates  had  been  removed  by  the  oppressive  Grafton. 
"It's  pleasanter  there  for  our  coffee;  besides  which  that 
room  is  the  only  one  here  that  can  lay  claim  to  something 
resembling  a  balcony." 

"This  one  is  of  your  creation?"  Olier  asked,  following 
her  upon  the  broad  balustraded  ledge  which,  with  a  su 
preme  contempt  for  difficulties,  she  had  caused  to  be 
bolted  to  the  granite  of  the  wall. 

"Yes,  naturally.  Forts  lack  such  conveniences,  as  a 
rule,"  she  replied,  laughing.  "And  rightly  so  in  more 
senses  than  one,  for  my  little  architectural  effort  is  not 
exactly  in  keeping  with  the  rest  of  this  unadorned  build 
ing.  But,  such  as  it  is,  it  happens  to  be  immensely  com 
fortable.  See  how  splendidly  we  can  watch  the  moon- 
rise  from  here."  And  she  pointed  to  the  strangely  large 
red  orb  slowly  emerging  from  the  sea,  its  dim  defaced 
human  semblance  seeming  to  bear  an  expression  grim 
and  wicked  rather  than  grotesque. 

"Br  .  .  .  rr  .  .  .  rr!  I  have  seen  more  cheerful  evening 
scenes,"  Olier  remarked,  glancing  at  the  cold,  black  water 
and  the  sardonic  moon  amid  the  half-encircling  frame  of 
rocky  shore. 

"Won't  you  have  a  cigarette  to  warm  you  up,  Lady 
Clanvowe?"  he  added,  holding  out  to  her  his  open  case. 

"No,  I  don't  feel  like  smoking  just  now,"  she  said, 
almost  impatiently.  "Please  go  and  fetch  my  violin 
from  the  table  in  there." 

"Are  you  going  to  play  for  me  at  last?"  he  asked,  de 
lighted. 

"Go  and  fetch  my  violin,"  she  repeated.  And,  a  little 
surprised  at  her  tone,  he  hastened  back  into  the  big  room 

8? 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

lit  by  heavily  veiled  lamps,  in  quest  of  the  precious  in 
strument. 

Without  a  word  she  took  it  from  him,  and  without  any 
preliminary  poses  or  attitudes  instantly  began  to  play, 
her  face  turned  almost  completely  away  from  him,  one 
knee  resting  on  the  low  balustrade  in  an  easy,  familiar 
attitude,  utterly  devoid  of  conventionality.  Prepared  as 
he  was  by  his  former  experience  out  there  on  the  shingle, 
he  nevertheless  felt  a  curious  shock  of  all  his  nerves  as 
he  listened  to  what  at  first  seemed  but  another  outburst 
of  impatience  rhythmically  expressed.  But  as  the  swift 
staccato  melody  proceeded  on  its  erratic  way,  emotions 
and  perceptions  hitherto  dormant  awoke  in  him  and 
more  than  once  made  him  catch  his  breath. 

Somebody  possessed  of  more  judgment  than  simplicity 
of  expression  has  said  that  the  voice  of  the  violin  is  ideal 
ized  sorrow;  forgetting,  however,  that  this  instrument, 
which  lies  nearest  the  human  heart,  is  supremely  capable 
of  being  made  to  render  every  feeling,  even  when,  as  was 
just  now  the  case,  unsupported  by  any  accompaniment 
but  that  of  wind  and  sea.  Olier,  at  any  rate,  found  no 
flaw  in  its  song  as  it  flowed  on  and  on,  linking  in  effort 
less  mastery  quaintly  sweet  Breton  berceuses  —  touch 
ing  little  epitomes  of  ancient  mother-loves — to  barbaric 
Tzigan  airs  that  found  an  echo  in  the  fitful  sea-breeze; 
wonderful  rhapsodies  woven  of  heart-shaking  hoof-beats, 
trumpets  far  off,  and  the  ring  of  steel;  and  snatches  of 
unknown  entreaty,  calling,  calling  onward,  to  something 
high  and  noble  and  divine;  until,  brutally  almost,  with 
one  last,  deep,  stirring  chord,  as  once  before  the  whole 
superb  sound-phantasmagoria  ended,  and  the  wash  of  the 
waves  remained  in  sole  possession  of  the  vast  night. 

Leaning  against  the  wall,  Olier  did  not  move  or  speak, 
and,  glancing  at  his  white  face,  Lady  Clanvowe  thought, 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

anxiously,  "Have  I  overdone  it?"  Then,  in  her  coolest, 
calmest  manner,  she  said  aloud,  putting  her  violin  down 
on  the  ledge: 

"Fortunately  this  mood  does  not  often  come  upon  me 
when  there  is  some  one  listening." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  came  from  Olier,  in  a  dull,  half- 
awake  sort  of  way,  "unless  you  want  to  send  people 
crazy." 

"Nonsense!" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  corrected,  straightening  him 
self  and  coming  nearer  to  where  she  was  standing.  "  Your 
genius  is  of  a  dangerous  sort.  It  twists  the  soul  like  a 
rag,  and  turns  the  heart  inside  out." 

"Your  soul  and  your  heart  need  not  mind  the  process. 
They  are  of  the  right  kind.  I  have  stolen  a  peep  into 
them,  and  I  am  satisfied  of  it,"  she  added,  more  seri 
ously. 

"  Both  are  sorely  lacking  in  decision  and  courage,  never 
theless." 

"So  you  believe.     But  you  must  allow  me  to  differ." 

"Only  because  you  do  not  know  the  worst  of  me,"  he 
said,  almost  sullenly. 

"Well,  supposing  you  sit  here  by  my  side  and  confess," 
she  suggested,  pointing  to  a  basket-chair  near  the  one  she 
always  occupied  when  on  the  balcony.  "There's  no  time 
like  the  present." 

He  obeyed,  and,  after  a  pause,  without  looking  at  her, 
slowly  began: 

"For  a  long  while,  Lady  Clan vo we,  1  have  been  ques 
tioning  the  possibility  of  my  remaining  in  the  navy. 
You  guessed  a  part  of  my  reasons,  I  know.  But  perhaps 
even  your  extraordinary  penetration  has  not  divined 
how  hard  it  would  be  for  me  to  abandon  the  sea."  He 
drew  a  short,  sharp  breath  as  his  eyes  rested  for  a  second 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

on  the  moonglade  raggedly  dividing  the  endless  proces 
sion  of  foamless  rollers. 

"Perhaps  I  can  do  that,  even,"  she  said,  gently;  "but 
please  go  on." 

"The  fact  is,"  he  resumed,  still  gazing  away  from  her, 
"that  there  are  certain  compromises  nowadays  demand 
ed  in  the  service  that  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  accept. 
Those  concerning  religious  matters  I  might  have  put  up 
with,  after  a  fashion.  I  make  no  secret  of  my  ideas,  and, 
although  perfectly  aware  that  they  stand  in  the  path 
of  my  future  advancement,  I  think  I  could  have  succeed 
ed  in  surmounting  such  obstacles  as  they  present.  But 
there  are  other  difficulties  much  more  arduous.  You  are 
acquainted,  I  understand  from  previous  conversations, 
with  the  spy  system  which,  first  in  the  army,  and  more 
lately  in  the  navy,  has  been  wrecking  career  after  career 
and  life  after  life.  That  is  getting  very  much  on  my 
nerves,  more  especially  since,  a  year  or  so  ago,  it  brought 
to  grief  the  captain  of  my  ship — a  Breton  like  ourselves 
and  a  man  of  sterling  worth.  Summoned  to  Paris,  he 
was  ordered,  in  peremptory  terms,  to  discontinue  the 
religious  observances  'which,'  it  had  been  reported, 
'shocked  and  disturbed  his  comrades' — those  were  the 
terms  employed;  and  knowing  himself  to  be  without 
fortune,  and  too  old  to  hope  for  success  in  any  other 
profession,  he  listened  in  silence.  When,  however,  a 
further  demand  was  made  for  the  non-attendance  at 
church  of  his  young  wife  and  his  two  little  boys,  he  drew 
his  sword,  broke  it  across  his  knee,  and,  setting  the  two 
pieces  on  the  official  desk,  left  the  room  without  further 
parley.  He  is  at  present  vegetating  with  his  little  family 
in  a  fisherman's  cottage  not  far  from  here.  I  don't  think 
they  have  altogether  more  than  seven  or  eight  hundred 
francs  a  year  to  live  upon.  It's  a  heart-breaking  thing 

qo 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

to  see."  He  paused,  and,  as  she  offered  no  comment, 
he  resumed,  in  the  same  monotonous  way: 

"You  see,  one  must  cringe  and  crawl  or  be  broken. 
This  is  the  outcome  of  the  ferocious  Jacobinism  of  to 
day.  The  Powers  that  Be  cannot  endure  any  sort  of  in 
trinsic  superiority  in  their  subordinates.  Wealth  is  the 
only  distinction  they  acknowledge,  for  money  is  sacred  in 
their  eyes.  An  honored  name,  a  title,  are  the  blackest 
marks  against  a  man.  What  they  really  want  is  slaves 
in  every  branch  of  the  service.  Why,  even  the  liberal 
professions  are  becoming  impossible!  The  judiciary  is 
expected  to  stop  at  nothing,  as  has,  I  think,  been  suffi 
ciently  demonstrated  by  the  case  of  the  unfortunate  Mar 
quis  de  N —  — ,  who,  as  you  may  remember,  was  kept 
by  his  examining  magistrate  for  two  years  in  solitary 
confinement,  and  barbarously  'sweated'  once  a  week  at 
least,  before  the  Juge  &  Instruction  was  finally  com 
pelled  to  send  him  before  a  jury,  which,  as  it  was  by 
chance  composed  of  honest  men,  acquitted  him  on  the 
spot." 

"  Being  given  that  he  is  a  Marquis,  he  can  talk  of  luck," 
interposed  Rouanez. 

"You  may  well  say  so.  And  yet  a  plain  citizen,  a 
very  worthy  man  indeed,  whose  only  drawback  in  gov 
ernmental  eyes  was  that  he  had  the  manner  and  opinions 
of  a  gentleman,  was  not  long  ago  indicted  for  murder,  on 
patently  manufactured  evidence,  and  only  after  several 
months  of  secret  confinement  was  allowed  to  appear  be 
fore  the  tribunal;  when  the  presiding  judge,  one  of  the 
old  school,  publicl)r  congratulated  the  investigating  mag 
istrate  upon  his  having  succeeded  on  this  occasion  in 
breaking  all  previous  records  for  'asinine  obstinacy  and 
wilful  prejudice.'  Such  arbitrary  acts  are  of  almost  daily 
commission.  Their  number  is  increasing  by  leaps  and 

91 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

bounds,  and,  honestly,  one  does  not  know  any  longer  in 
France  where  to  turn  for  common  justice." 

"  France  is  disintegrating,"  she  assented.  "  No  one  could 
have  watched  the  process  more  carefully  than  I  have — 
from  afar  off,  it  is  true,  but  none  the  less  constantly. 
Since  my  arrival  here,  indignation  has  crowded  out  nearly 
every  other  feeling  I  am  capable  of.  But  what  can  one 
do  except  fret  and  fume?" 

"A  great  deal,  perhaps,"  he  muttered  so  low,  that  she 
guessed  more  than  heard  the  words. 

"Speak  up!  Tell  me  what  you  mean!"  she  exclaimed, 
sitting  suddenly  bolt  upright  in  her  chair  and  fixing  him 
with  imperious  eyes. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Lady  Clanvowe,  I'm  coming  to  that 
presently.  Meanwhile,  do  you  mind  if  I  ask  you  a  ques 
tion?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"Well,  then,  is  it  true  that  you  received  that  worm- 
eaten  politician  Dulac  here  to-day?  Hanvec,  my  incor 
rigible  news-gatherer,  told  me  so,  but  I  refused  to  believe 
him." 

"He  was  well  informed,  as  usual.  Dulac  did  call  upon 
me  —  forced  his  way  in  —  after  a  fashion  —  because  if  I 
hadn't  been  seized  with  a  sudden  curiosity  about  him 
he  wouldn't  have  got  in  at  all.  But  thanks  to  the  fact 
that  he  is  the  new  proprietor  of  Rozkavel — 

"Dulac  has  bought  the  Fort?"  Olier  asked,  incredu 
lously. 

"No,  no.     The  Castle  of  Rozkavel — my  old  home." 

"Good  Heavens!  Why  didn't  you  buy  it,  Lady  Clan 
vowe?  I  didn't  know  it  was  in  the  market." 

"Neither  did  I  until  too  late,  unfortunately,  although 
my  agents  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  a  chance  of  pur 
chase,  year  after  year.  I  have  never  ceased  to  regret  its 

92 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

having  been  sold  at  my  father's  death  in  order  to  get  to 
gether  a  little  dowry  for  me.  My  guardian  was  an  ob 
stinate  man,  who  would  not  hear  of  delay  in  the  matter, 
and,  since  I  was  scarcely  more  than  a  child  then,  my  en 
treaties  fell  upon  deaf  ears.  Alain  de  Morsan  got  it  for  a 
song.  His  wife  was  a  Meridionale,  who  hated  Brittany, 
and  hastened  to  get  rid  of  it  the  moment  she  became  a 
widow.  Poteau,  the  rich  manufacturer,  was  the  next 
purchaser,  as  you  probably  remember,  and  my  husband 
made  him  several  offers  through  an  agent,  but  he  would 
not  sell  at  any  price.  Now,  however,  Poteau's  daughter 
has  just  married  Dulac's  son,  it  appears,  and  the  wily 
Senator,  who  is  extremely  anxious  to  obtain  a  footing 
among  his  constituents,  has  paid  a  fancy  price  for  the 
estate." 

Olier  shrugged  his  shoulders  angrily.  Dulac  as  chate- 
lain  of  Rozkavel  will  be  a  pretty  sight  to  contemplate," 
he  grumbled.  "Rozkavel — the  Cradle  of  the  Rose* — the 
Royalist  Rose!  A  fine  place  for  that  porker  to  wallow 
in!" 

"It  can't  be  helped  now,"  she  said,  quietly.  "But  tell 
me,  Olier,  why  you  seemed  so  perturbed  at  Dulac's  visit?" 

"Because  Dulac  is  a  thoroughly  bad  man,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  heavy,  coarse  appearance  and  behavior,  a  singu 
larly  quick  and  shrewd  one.  Knowing  him  as  I  do,  I 
believe  he  came  here  for  some  purpose  of  his  own,  cer 
tainly  not  from  ordinary  curiosity,  or  even  snobbishness. 
Poteau  would  have  been  quite  another  pair  of  sleeves. 
He  is  a  harmless  old  chap,  proud  of  his  wealth,  reason 
ably  stingy  and  passably  vulgar,  but  by  no  means  a  bad 
fellow;  whereas  it  is  annoying  to  find  that  Dulac  is  in 
terested  in  your  presence  at  the  Fort." 

*  The  meaning  of  the  Breton  name  Rozkavel. 
93 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Perhaps,"  Rouanez  suggested,  "since  he  intends  to 
spend  the  summer  a  few  short  miles  from  here,  and  since 
he  is  a  married  man,  he  only  wishes  to  establish  neigh 
borly  relations." 

"I  am  not  at  all  of  that  opinion,"  Olier  said,  decisively. 
"Dulac  is  a  beast,  but,  as  I  have  just  told  you,  a  very 
intelligent  and  wide-awake  one,  and  even  social  ambition 
of  the  most  virulent  sort  would  never  induce  him  to  com 
mit  such  a  betise  as  to  bring  you  and  Madame  Dulac  face 
to  face." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Madame  Dulac?" 

"Oh,  a  whole  lot.  To  begin  with,  she  is  said  to  have 
been  more  than  .  .  .  lively  ...  in  her  young  days;  at  any 
rate,  when  Dulac,  then  a  famished  journalist — annexed 
her — she  was  occupying  an  unequivocal  position  behind 
the  bar  of  a  brasserie  in  Montmartre.  They  lived  dis 
honorably  together  for  several  years,  she  paying  the 
greater  part  of  the  expenses,  and  then,  discovering  that 
her  lover  was  getting  rich,  she  bullied  him  into  marrying 
her,  without  drums,  trumpets,  or  witnesses,  except  the 
necessary  legal  ones.  To-day  the  couple  are  millionaires 
two  or  three  times  over,  and  the  ex-barmaid  gives  herself 
excruciating  airs  of  virtue.  She  is — if  you  will  pardon 
the  roughness  of  the  simile — one  of  those  self-made  prudes 
who  would  put  trousers  on  a  pair  of  sugar-tongs,  and  she 
now  exacts  the  most  ferocious  respect  for  the  convenances 
from  all  who  approach  her." 

"  Of  course — the  zeal  of  the  proselyte,"  Rouanez  smiled. 

"Exactly,"  Olier  responded.  "And  my  portrayal  is 
not  in  the  least  overdrawn.  May  luck  preserve  you  from 
ever  convincing  yourself  of  this  with  your  own  eyes. 
Bales  of  false  hair  and  cascades  of  real  diamonds  ;  a 
blotched,  vicious  face,  thickly  powdered  and  painted,  a 
voice  like  vinegar,  only  more  so,  and  a  shrewishness  that 

94 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

beggars  all  description.  She  is,  I  really  believe,  the 
worse  of  the  two." 

"That  seems  difficult!"  Lady  Clanvowe  protested. 

"No,  bad  as  he  is,  she  has  the  advantage  of  being  cal 
lously  cruel.  It  is  she,  for  instance,  who  last  year  con 
ceived  the  precious  idea  of  importing  American  oysters 
into  Cancale  in  order  to  send  them  on  to  Paris  as  native 
products,  and  sell  them  there  at  an  enormous  profit." 

"Dear  me!  I  think  I  read  something  about  it  at  the 
time.  Wasn't  there  a  row  of  sorts?" 

"I  should  think  so.  The  Cancalais  boarded  the  first 
oyster-laden  vessel  that  entered  their  port,  destroyed 
four  million  shell-fish,  thrashed  captain  and  crew  to  a 
jelly,  and  were  only  prevented  from  scuttling  the  ship 
by  the  untimely  advent  of  the  gendarmes,  who  had  a  hot 
time  of  it,  too.  That  little  venture  cost  Dulac  something 
over  fifty  thousand  francs.  It  is  refreshing  to  think  that 
if  he  tried  it  again,  especially  hereabouts,  the  bill  would 
probably  be  footed  with  blood." 

"It  would  serve  him  right,  the  villain!"  she  cried,  in 
dignantly.  "Imagine  trying  to  ruin  the  wretched  little 
industries  here!  Haven't  the  poor  devils  suffered  enough 
from  the  failure  of  the  sardines ?  Oh,  it  is  odious!  Olier, 
what  can  we  do — you  and  I — to  help  them?  Tell  me 
now,  please,  please!" 

She  had  risen  and  began  to  pace  the  length  of  the  bal 
cony,  her  long,  white  train  making  a  shining  wake  behind 
her,  and  he  let  her  pass  and  repass  him  several  times  be 
fore  answering  her  question. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  me?"  she  demanded,  irritably, 
pausing  at  last  and  almost  striking  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"Because,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  needed  just  those  few 
additional  minutes  to  make  sure  of  myself.  Now  my 

95 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

mind  is  made  up — about  a  good  many  things.  In  the 
first  place,  I  am  leaving  the  navy."  His  face  was  calm, 
almost  expressionless,  but  there  was  an  unmistakable  ring 
of  decision  in  his  voice. 

Bending  quickly  forward,  she  glanced  scrutinizingly  at 
him.  "You  are  quite  certain?"  she  asked. 

"  Quite.  I  cannot  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the 
hounds,  nor,  in  strict  loyalty,  sympathize  with  and  abet 
Royalists  and  Catholics  while  serving  the  present  style 
of  republic.  That  is  clear  to  you,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes.  But  can  you  afford  to  abandon  a  career  which, 
if  not  brilliant  in  the  monetary  sense,  is  nevertheless  ac 
ceptable  in  that  respect  for  a  man  of  your  simple  tastes. 
Forgive  me,  Olier,  for  my  frankness,  but  it  is  well  to 
count  the  cost  sometimes." 

"Your  frankness,  like  everything  else  coming  from 
you,  is  all  kindness  and  consideration,"  he  said,  much 
touched;  but,  interrupting  him,  she  continued  talking, 
rather  rapidly,  and  as  though  greatly  troubled: 

"You  are  quite,  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  my  harum- 
scarum  influence  which  has  weighed  with  you  in  deciding  ? 
You  see,  it  would  be  a  terrible  responsibility  to  assume, 
and,  although  I  am  generally  perfectly  ready  to  face  the 
outcome  of  my  words  and  actions,  yet  in  this  case — ' 
She  broke  off  a  little  breathlessly,  her  delicate  features 
drawn  with  anxiety.  Gently  taking  her  hand,  he  raised 
it  to  his  lips. 

"Your  influence,  dear  Lady  Clanvowe,  is  the  best  and 
most  wholesome  one  I  have  ever  felt.  Please  do  not  vex 
yourself  with  doubts  as  to  the  single-mindedness  of  my 
resolve.  It  was  inevitable,  and  I  would  have  reached  it 
sooner  or  later  in  any  case.  That  I  did  so  now  may  be 
indirectly  laid  at  your  door,  perhaps,  and  for  this  I  am 
grateful  to  you,  since  the  course  I  am  adopting  is  the  only 

96 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

one  for  an  honest  man.  Now,  however,  will  you  sit  down 
again  and  let  me  tell  you  something  more  concerning  a 
question  you  put  to  me  awhile  ago?" 

Silently  she  did  as  he  asked,  and  for  more  than  three 
hours  the  bright  moon-rays  shone  on  two  faces  that  seemed 
cast  in  the  same  mould  of  irrevocable  resolve. 

When  at  last  he  rose  to  go,  he  suddenly  pointed  to  a 
plain  little  golden  fleur-de-lys  clasping  a  spray  of  white 
heather  on  the  lace  of  her  sleeve. 

"Will  you  give  me  that?"  he  said,  simply.  "I  think  I 
might  carry  the  emblem  again  now." 

"You  can,  indeed,"  she  murmured,  and  with  quick 
ringers  she  snatched  it  off  and  fastened  both  flower  and 
badge  to  the  lapel  of  his  dress-coat. 

"Ah.  well!"  she  said,  softly.  "At  least  the  gloom  and 
irresolution  of  the  past  are  gone!  Let  Dulac  have  old 
Rozkavel,  Olier;  perhaps  you  and  I  can  make  this  the 
true  Cradle  of  the  Rose!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Coral,  red  coral?     No,  'tis  not  the  bruited 
Blood  of  the  Depths:  a  weed-growth  drifting  free, 
By  the  strong  ground-swell  after  storm  uprooted 
From  ledges  under  sea. 

Though  tint  for  tint  without  a  shade  at  issue, 
And  branch  for  branch  in  form  and  measure  true, 
It  images  that  rare  Caprsean  tissue 
Framed  in  the  stainless  blue. 

A  quaint  duplicity,  but  perhaps  another 
May  show,  sweetheart,  before  the  eyes  that  mark. 
What  will  you  liken  to  this  wandering  brother 
Of  all  the  soundless  dark? 

The  floating  Flower  of  Sleep,  along  the  edges 
Of  shoreward  waves;  its  dreaded  Twin  of  Stone 
Deep-drowned  and  silent  as  Lethean  sedges 
Where  never  wind  is  blown? 

Our  Life  that  is,  too  restless  for  enjoying, 
Fearful  of  all,  forgetful  of  the  slime 
Strewn  with  those  other  selves,  beyond  destroying, 
Lodged  in  the  bones  of  Time  ? 

No,  to  a  dearer  thought  my  choice  is  lessened, 
One  only  gloss  to  which  your  heed  I  crave; 
Song,  though  a  flower  slight  and  evanescent, 
Rideth  no  shallow  wave. 

Up  from  the  deeps  that  know  her  silent  session 
She  lifts  to  ocean-music  heaving  slow, 
To  reach  your  feet,  the  poor  and  frail  expression 
Of  all  that  dwells  below. 

The  Red  Coral-weed. — M.  M. 
98 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

LIFE  at  and  about  Fort  Rozkavel  continued  to  go  on 
in  its  usual  placid  and  uneventful  way — at  least, to  all  out 
ward  seeming.  But  deep  beneath  the  calm  surface  there 
were  significant  quiverings,  like  those  in  water  when  it 
has  almost  reached  the  boiling-point. 

A  terrible  storm  had  swept  along  the  coast  a  few  days 
after  Rouanez  and  Olier's  long  conversation,  leaving  in 
its  track  more  than  one  ruined  corn-field  behind  the 
dunes,  and  an  increased  weight  of  anxiety  in  many  a 
heart,  for  the  wheat  and  oats  and  rye  of  that  region  are 
famous,  and  sell  at  comparatively  high  prices.  But  the 
farmers  were  determined  to  recoup  themselves  a  little  in 
the  only  way  possible  by  gathering  from  the  beach  the 
immense  quantities  of  sea-weed  wrenched  by  the  waves 
from  the  rocks  and  skerries  along  the  shore,  thus  aug 
menting  the  always  insufficient  provision  that  can  be 
made  on  the  one  day  annually  allowed  by  the  government 
for  harvesting  the  living  growth,  which  is  strictly  pre 
served  during  the  remainder  of  the  year. 

The  sea  was  still  in  a  wallowing  confusion,  the  water 
rising  and  falling  in  drunken-looking  billows  that  top 
pled  thunderously  over  the  reefs  and  crushed  themselves 
out  into  spreading  sheets  of  yellow  foam;  but  to  such 
dangers  the  coast  population  is  hereditarily  indifferent, 
and  the  spectacle  presented  by  the  stretch  of  stone  and 
shingle  abandoned  by  one  of  the  highest  tides  of  the  sea 
son  filled  Lady  Clanvowe  with  delight,  as,  clad  in  her 
bathing  -  suit,  she  stepped  upon  the  Fort  -  glacis  at  four 
o'clock  the  morning  after  the  storm.  The  whole  space 
was  black  with  people  armed  for  the  fray  with  sharp 
tridents,  the  women  with  their  heavy  belinge  petticoats 
kilted  high  from  their  bare  legs  with  broad  bands  of 
cloth,  and  red  or  blue  kerchiefs  tied  closely  over  their 
coiffes  to  preserve  their  whiteness  from  disaster;  the  men 

99 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

wearing  for  the  occasion  —  for  it  was  singularly  raw  — 
the  winter  hood  of  greenish  -  blue  swan-skin,  no  longer 
encountered  in  other  parts  of  Brittany,  which,  closely 
fitting  over  the  head  and  lower  portion  of  the  face,  like 
a  knightly  camail,  gave  these  gaunt  giants  a  striking 
resemblance  to  the  war-chiefs  of  feudal  days.  An  inter 
minable  file  of  side-rack  carts  was  ranged  at  the  edge  of 
the  splashy  stretches  where  the  brown  kelp -fleeces  lay 
the  thickest,  and  from  everywhere  resounded  like  a  bat 
tle-cry  the  "D'ar  bezin!  .  .  .  D'ar  bezin!"*  of  the  har 
vesters. 

Bending  far  out  over  the  parapet,  Lady  Clanvowe, 
completely  fascinated,  watched  the  concerted  rush  of  the 
multitude,  bent  upon  profiting  by  this  lucky  chance  to 
"do  the  government" — as  they  joyfully  called  it — out 
of  as  much  bezin  glaz"\  as  they  could  manage  to  tear  up 
before  the  jealous  sea  galloped  them  off  its  borders.  The 
other  weed,  the  wreckage  of  the  storm,  already  lying 
crushed  and  bruised  in  mountains  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs, 
was  for  the  present  merely  their  pretext  for  appropriat 
ing  something  of  much  greater  value — the  fresh,  living 
product — and  they  took  it  brutally,  fiercely,  floundering 
waist-deep  into  the  wash  of  every  receding  wave,  indif 
ferent  to  the  risk  of  being  swallowed  up  by  some  hole  or 
crevice,  and  storming  every  new  position  as  if  a  personal 
enemy  had  been  intrenched  behind  each  successively 
emerging  rock. 

Carried  away  by  her  growing  enthusiasm,  Lady  Clan 
vowe  ran  down  to  mix  with  the  toilers.  Her  secret  had 
been  well  guarded  as  far  as  the  outside  world  went — the 
outside  world  meaning  here  all  that  was  not  strictly  Bre 
ton — but  among  themselves  the  word  had  been  passed 

*  "  Au  goemon" — " To  the  weed!" 
t  Green,  or  live,  goemon. 
100 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

that  "Kountez  Rouanez"  had  returned,  and  as  soon  as 
she  appeared  a  loud  hurrah  greeted  her. 

"Come  along,  Itron!*  Help  us  chase  away  that  ruf 
fianly  sea  who's  keeping  us  from  our  own!"  they  cried, 
thrusting  her  forward  with  a  willingness  to  make  her 
head  the  fighting-line  that  came  naturally  to  them,  since 
their  nobles  had  always  been  in  the  van  since  the  begin 
ning  of  time;  and,  laughingly  entering  into  the  spirit  of 
the  thing,  she  splashed  her  way  to  the  front  of  the  Roz- 
kavel  clan — no  longer  the  great  lady  who  created  a  sen 
sation  wherever  she  showed  herself  sparkling  from  head 
to  foot  with  the  Clanvowe  diamonds,  but  almost  again 
the  same  little  Rouanez  de  Rozkavel  who  had  been  the 
life  and  joy  of  similar  bygone  raids. 

"  Ai  ta!  Ai  to/"f  she  called  out,  running  at  full  speed 
after  a  viciously  back-spouting  wave,  spitting  and  slaver 
ing  all  over  her,  with  the  shouting  crew  at  her  heels. 
From  beneath  her  down  -  jammed  sailor  -  cap  one  long 
braid  had  escaped,  and  was  floating  behind  her  like  a  silver 
streamer,  but  her  rosy,  wind-beaten  face  was  that  of  the 
Vamezel  of  long  ago,  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  fun. 

Old  Hanvec,  standing  on  a  near-by  point  of  rock, 
chuckled  as  he  followed  her  inimitably  graceful  onward 
rush.  "  Here's  the  leader  they  are  braying  for!"  he  cried, 
in  sudden  enlightenment.  "The  last  one  left  of  the  old 
blood.  Ah,  Gwa!%  What  a  pity  she  isn't  a  man!" 

"She's  worth  twenty!"  a  gruff  voice  said  at  his  feet, 
and,  looking  down  in  surprise,  he  saw  Guenek,  an  ex- 
farmer  of  the  Marquis  de  Rozkavel,  who  had  stopped  a 
moment  to  readjust  his  load  of  kelp. 

"She  is,"  Hanvec  admitted.  "But  who's  to  tell  her 
so  and  ask  her  to  help  us?  They  do  say  she's  rich  as  a 

*  Lady.  f  En  avant.  %  Malheur. 

IOI 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

queen,  and,  if  she  wanted  to,  we'd  soon  be  provided  with 
what  we  lack  to  tumble  their  strumpet  of  a  republic  into 
the  ditch." 

"Why  don't  you  get  your  young  master  to  do  that?" 
the  metayer  demanded.  "He  is  the  only  person  she  al 
lows  inside  her  gate.  Why  don't  you?" 

"He'd  soon  send  me  to  the  rightabout,"  Olier's  old 
retainer  replied.  "I  tried  to  approach  him  a  while  ago 
about  something  like  it,  and  you  should  have  seen  his 
scowl,  Pere  Guene"k — it  was  worth  the  price  of  entry." 

"Bah!  Try  again.  In  his  heart  he  is  with  us.  Gue- 
madeuc  told  me  so  before  leaving  for  his  new  post.  But 
here  I  am  gossiping  instead  of  working.  King,  Presi 
dent,  or  Devil,  we  must  have  kelp!"  And,  hitching  his 
ungainly  burden  higher  upon  his  shoulders,  the  worthy 
man  turned  and  strode  away  without  another  word. 

"He  is  right,"  Hanvec  commented  to  himself.  "Our 
Count  could  perhaps  make  her  help  us.  But  I'm  not  going 
to  risk  being  sworn  at  again.  Supposing  I  asked  her 
myself?  She  couldn't  eat  me  up." 

For  a  little  while  longer  he  pondered,  nodding  his 
gray  head  and  shifting  from  one  leg  to  the  other  like  a 
melancholy  heron,  and  looking  vaguely  like  one,  too,  with 
his  gaunt  figure  and  stooping  shoulders,  perched  on  his 
rock  above  the  half-flooded  tidal  flat.  During  the  last 
weeks  he  had  heard  much,  and  stored  in  his  inexorable 
memory  fact  over  fact  of  a  decisive  nature,  and  he  knew 
well  enough  that  if  he  could  impart  some  of  this  knowledge 
to  a  personage  able  —  perhaps  willing  —  to  act,  it  would 
weigh  heavily  in  the  balance. 

"I'll  risk  it,"  he  said  aloud  again,  and,  instantly  de 
scending  from  his  observation  post,  he  moved  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  group,  taking  a  short  breathing-spell  be 
low  the  Fort  talus. 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

The  sun,  a  great  crimson  ball,  half-swathed  in  angry 
whorls  of  purple  storm-cloud,  had  but  lately  peeped 
above  the  rocking  ocean-rim.  But  there  was  no  time 
to  waste,  for  the  tide  would  soon  begin  to  turn,  and 
before  he  could  reach  them  the  line  of  harvesters  with  a 
wild  hurrah  went  plunging  in  again. 

"Confound  them  and  their  hurry!"  he  grumbled,  sitting 
down  on  a  bowlder  and  pulling  his  short  wooden  pipe 
from  his  pocket.  "I'd  have  liked  to  speak  to  one  or  two 
of  those  who  live  farthest  inland.  It  will  mean  a  fine 
long  tramp  to  go  and  seek  them  out.  But  where's  the 
use  trying  to  get  hold  of  such  lunatics?"  he  concluded, 
carefully  sheltering  the  weak,  blue  flame  of  a  malo 
dorous  sulphur  match  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  "She, 
too,"  he  growled  on,  "risking  her  good  health  in  that 
cold  water!  Is  there  any  sense  in  that?  Every  day, 
all  day  —  and  damn  the  weather  —  she's  in  and  out 
of  it.  Should  she  fall  sick  now,  we'd  be  in  a  fine 
plight." 

Evidently  the  changes  of  the  years  did  not  weigh  upon 
Hanvec's  sanguine  spirit.  He  scarcely  had  a  doubt  as 
to  the  success  of  his  self-imposed  mission.  She  could 
give  but  one  reply.  The  daughter  of  the  Rozkavels  be 
longed  to  her  people,  he  felt,  overlooking  with  sublime 
indifference  such  trifling  matters  as  marriage-ties  and 
altered  nationalities;  and,  considering  these  things,  his 
customary  philosophy  was  rudely  shaken  by  her  reckless 
behavior.  Presently  he  quite  lost  sight  of  her,  and  the 
mere  idea  that  she  could  be  so  foolish  as  to  go  and  drown 
herself  before  his  chance  of  enlisting  her  sympathies  had 
come  made  him  fidgety. 

"He!  Jouan!"  he  called  out  to  a  broad-shouldered  lad 
backing  his  newly  filled  ox-cart  up  the  slope.  "What's 
become  of  the  Itron?" 

103 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

The  young  fellow's  white  teeth  gleamed  in  a  broad 
smile  of  amusement. 

"She's  away  beyond  the  reef,  taking  headers  in  the 
breakers,  and  riding  in  upon  them!"  he  shouted  back. 
"She's  a  daring  one  with  the  water,  she  is!" 

"But,  sacred  name  of  a  pig!"  Hanvec  cried,  rising  with 
surprising  alacrity  and  walking  quickly  toward  the  cart, 
"somebody  should  fetch  her  home!  She'll  be  carried 
off!  The  sea's  treacherous  as  Judas  Iscariot  after  a  high 
tide  like  yesterday's.  What  are  you  all  thinking  of?" 

Jouan  stared  at  the  irritable  old  gardener. 

"What  ails  yourself?"  he  asked,  in  astonishment. 
"Are  you  her  guardian  now,  that  you  bristle  up  like  that? 
Surely  she's  of  age,  and  knows  what  she's  about." 

"She  doesn't,"  Hanvec  asserted,  "else  she  wouldn't 
be  going  on  like  this.  Here,  boy,"  he  added,  "I'll  mind 
your  caleche  and  pair,  and  give  you  a  pipe  of  tobacco 
into  the  bargain,  if  you'll  go  and  watch  her  a  bit.  You're 
the  best  swimmer  in  five  villages." 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  the  lad  exclaimed.  "You're  not 
going  dotty,  old  one,  are  you?" 

"Shut  your  noise  and  do  as  I  tell  you!"  Hanvec  or 
dered,  with  sudden  authority.  "I  have  my  reasons.  Go 
now!" 

To  refuse  obedience  when  graybeards  speak  is  still  a 
very  serious  misdeed  in  Brittany.  Still,  poor  Jouan  hes 
itated.  He  did  not  fancy  missing  the  opportunity  of 
hauling  in  another  load  of  the  precious  weed.  But  Han 
vec  was  not,  as  a  rule,  a  man  to  be  trifled  with,  and,  be 
sides,  derived  much  dignity  and  importance  from  his 
privileged  position  with  Olier. 

"I  must  go  if  you  say  so,  of  course,"  he  said,  sullenly. 
"But  she'll  pick  me  up  nicely  for  interfering  with  her. 
It's  an  impertinence  you  want  me  to  be  doing,  that's 

104 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

what  it  is.  And  like  as  not  she'll  slap  my  jaw  for  an  in 
solent  pup.*' 

"Let  her;  what  matters?"  was  the  growling  rejoinder. 

"Much  obliged,  my  lord  gardener.  You're  a  good 
plucked  one  where  another  man  has  to  face  the  music." 

"Enough!"  Hanvec  thundered.  "Are  you  going,  you 
ill-mannered,  offensive,  white-livered  sand-louse!  Must 
I  help  you  on  with  my  oak-leather  slipper,  or  offer  you 
my  arm  to  lean  upon?"  His  wrinkled  face  suddenly 
became  malignant  as  he  drew  himself  to  his  full  height 
and  towered  over  the  tall  youth. 

"One's  off  ...  one's  off!"  Jouan  hastily  acquiesced. 
"  You're  peppery  for  your  age,  godfather! '  '*  And,  avoid 
ing  the  old  man's  uplifted  arm,  he  turned  to  go. 

At  that  moment,  however,  a  dripping  little  figure  raced 
up  the  slippery  slope,  carrying  an  armful  of  those  beauti 
ful  algse,  looking  so  wonderfully  like  soft,  pink  coral,  that 
are  sometimes  washed  from  the  bottom  of  the  sea  by  a 
deep  ground-swell. 

Two  sighs  of  profound  relief  greeted  her  appearance, 
and  as  she  passed  them,  still  at  a  run,  with  a  quickly 
thrown  "good-morning,"  the  old  man  and  the  young  one 
exchanged  a  glance. 

"There!"  Jouan  mocked.  "There's  your  baby  that 
I  was  to  go  and  watch  over!  She  doesn't  look  as  if  she 
wanted  much  help,  does  she?" 

"Oh,  get  along!"  Hanvec  retorted,  "  How  do  you  know 
she  hasn't  caught  her  death  of  cold,  you  slow-brain?" 

Apparently  convinced  that  his  "godfather"  had  sud 
denly  fallen  into  dotage,  the  gars  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
spat  in  his  hands,  and,  seizing  hold  once  more  of  his 
long  ox-goad,  returned  to  his  job  without  one  glance  at 

*  A  title  often  given  by  young  people  to  their  elders. 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  gaunt  shape  of  the  gardener,  already  ascending  the 
talus  in  Rouanez's  wake. 

"Is  it  possible  to  say  two  words  to  your  lady?"  Han- 
vec  demanded  a  few  minutes  later  of  the  servant  whom, 
oblivious  of  electric  bells,  he  had  summoned  by  a  fearful 
thundering  on  the  iron  door.  The  man,  a  tall,  blond,  blue- 
eyed  Saxon,  gazed  at  the  tall,  blue -eyed,  gray -haired 
Celt  with  instinctive  hostility  and  the  offensive  hauteur 
of  flunkeydom.  He  spoke  neither  French  nor  Breton, 
and,  scanning  the  humble  working-attire  of  the  intruder, 
was  already  turning  to  reclose  the  postern-door  in  his 
face,  when  the  latter,  coolly  setting  his  back  against  it, 
repeated  his  question  in  the  loud  voice  which  most  people 
seem  to  think  will  assist  a  foreigner's  comprehension  of 
an  unknown  tongue;  and  eye  and  head  reinforced  well  a 
distinct  flavor  of  command. 

"Well!  Of  hall  the  himpudence  and  haudacity!"  the 
footman  exclaimed,  measuring  the  native's  wiry  frame 
and  broad  shoulders.  "Get  out  of  it,  you  'eathen!" 

Hanvec  wasn't  one  to  "get  out  of  it,"  even  had  he 
understood  the  order,  and  matters  were  assuming  a  seri 
ous  aspect  when  Jwala -Singh,  who  had  seen  the  en 
counter  from  the  other  side  of  the  yard,  came  opportunely 
between  the  two  angry  men. 

"Let  him  come  in,"  he  said,  in  his  soft,  flexible  voice. 
"My  lady  does  not  want  these  to  be  turned  away." 

The  footman  scowled,  but  drew  off,  unwilling  to  dis 
pute  the  Sikh's  authority,  since  Jwala-Singh,  his  mistress's 
personal  attendant,  had  never  been  known  to  make  a 
mistake.  Meanwhile,  Hanvec  was  taking  stock  of  the 
picturesque  mediator.  He  had  served  in  the  navy  in 
his  distant  youth,  and  a  dusky  countenance  was  no  nov 
elty  to  him,  while  the  rich  costume  appealed  to  his  Bre 
ton  eye  for  gorgeous  color. 

106 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Come,"  Jwala-Singh  said,  with  a  courteous  gesture 
of  unmistakable  welcome,  and  Hanvec,  disdaining  to  so 
much  as  glance  at  the  discomfited  footman,  followed  his 
brilliant  guide,  who,  judging  further  parley  useless,  ush 
ered  him  into  a  sort  of  waiting-room,  indicated  a  chair, 
and  left  him  to  contemplate  the  granite  walls  at  his 
leisure. 

In  a  very  short  while  he  was  there  again,  silent  as  ever, 
to  lead  him  along  a  bewildering  labyrinth  of  inner  pas 
sages  to  the  "den,"  where  Lady  Clanvowe,  wrapped  in 
a  loose,  white  cashmere  dressing-gown,  her  astonishing 
tresses  falling  like  a  silver  cascade  almost  to  her  feet,  was 
breakfasting  from  a  tray  in  the  sunny  window -seat. 
She  did  not  speak  until  Jwala-Singh  had  vanished  like  a 
shadow  beneath  the  portiere;  then,  smiling  up  at  her 
venerable  visitor,  she  asked  him  in  Breton  to  be  seated. 

"Not  in  your  presence,  Itron,"  Hanvec  deprecated, 
standing  straight  and  proud  midw.iy  between  door  and 
window. 

"Please  do!"  Rouanez  persisted.  "We  can  talk  better 
so,"  and,  without  more  ado,  the  newsmonger  of  Kremarze 
took  possession  of  an  escabeau,  which  he  fetched  from  a 
far  corner  rather  than  accept  the  comfortable  arm-chair 
to  which  she  had  motioned  him. 

"Aren't  you  one  of  the  Frehel  men?"  she  asked,  put 
ting  down  her  cup. 

"Yes,  Itron.  I  have  been  gardener  at  Kremarze  ever 
since  I  came  back  from  the  service,  many  years  ago." 

"That  was  after  my  father's  death?"  she  inquired, 
watching  him  from  under  her  long  lashes,  curious  to  find 
out  whether  he,  too,  knew  who  she  really  was. 

"Yes,  Itron;  which  is  why  I  only  'remind'  you  from 
your  likeness  to  Madame  la  Marquise  that  was.  You're 
the  very  spit  of  her,"  he  admiringly  concluded. 

107 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"And  tell  me,  my  friend,"  she  returned,  repressing  a 
smile,  "have  you  come  on  an  errand  from  Monsieur 
Olier?" 

Hanvec  gazed  into  the  depths  of  his  red-knitted  cap 
for  a  moment,  turned  the  bright  object  slowly  inside  out, 
like  a  stocking,  and  coughed. 

"  No,  Itron,  no !"  he  declared  at  last.  "And,  to  be  honest, 
I'd  sooner  not  have  the  master  know  that  I  have  made  so 
bold.  I've  come  on  an  errand,  it's  true,  but  not  his." 

"Ah!"  she  said,  bending  over  the  little  silver  tea-pot 
as  if  wholly  taken  up  with  an  investigation  of  its  contents. 
"Ah!" 

"And,"  Hanvec  continued,  mastering  an  unusual  em 
barrassment,  "that's  just  the  rub.  I'm  afraid  to  tell 
what  it  is." 

Rouanez  looked  up  and  fixed  her  dark-blue  eyes  upon 
him.  "That's  not  as  it  should  be  between  old  Bretons 
like  us  two,"  she  quietly  put  in. 

The  wrinkled,  troubled  face  smoothed  suddenly  and 
grew  beautifully  calm  and  hopeful. 

"You  haven't  disremembered  the  Rozkavel  ways, 
Itron,"  he  said,  with  a  gleam  of  triumphant  gratification. 

"Do  we  ever  forget?"  she  asked,  simply. 

"No,  sacred-good-blood!  No!  And,  being  as  it  is,  I 
can  speak  out,  after  all.  You'll  not  mind  what  I've  got 
to  say,  even  if  you  don't  take  up  with  it."  He  passed 
the  back  of  his  hand  twice  across  his  mouth,  shifted  on 
his  inhospitable  seat,  and  glanced  first  over  one  shoulder 
and  then  over  the  other  at  the  corners  of  the  huge  room. 

"Can  we  be  overheard?"  he  whispered,  bending  toward 
her. 

"No,"  she  reassured  him,  "certainly  not.  And,  more 
over,  we  two  alone  here  speak  and  understand  Breton. 
Go  ahead." 

1 08 


CHAPTER  IX 

Abeam,  abeam,  abreast  the  gleam  of  sullen-sinking  day, 
Ghostlike,  a  shadow  glimpsed  and  gone  behind  the  sleeting  spray, 
Our  island  lies,  a  grimmer  guise  than  haven  yet  hath  worn, 
A  blotch  of  Night,  a  loathlier  sight  than  ere  the  world  was  born. 

Her  ploughing  skerries  lift  the  wave  to  smite  the  viewless  verge, 
Her  strangled  sea-caves  gulp  and  roar  disgorging  to  the  surge, 
Her  headlands  tear  the  racing  rack,  and  beastlike  in  their  den 
With  cracking  jowl  the  bowlders  growl  to  grip  the  bones  of  men. 

Bear  up!  bear  up!  the  gunnel's  low  to  scur  the  leeward  spume, 
And  Darkness  driveth  down  to  bid  the  sea-smoke  writhe  and  fume; 
Hark!  down  the  corridors  of  fog  the  blasting  squalls  do  blow — 
Boom,  boom,  the  bellowing  cliffs  defy  their  everlasting  foe! 

Ahead,  ahead,  the  breakers  spread  a  monstrous  moony-white, 
A  phantom  flame  that  pallor  came  to  beacon  all  the  night; 
Through,  through  we  go — one  gasping  throe,  and  in  the  reef  are  we, 
For  drowned  souls  that  ever  tolls  the  bourdon  of  the  sea. 

A  lantern  close  beside  the  surf,  another  far  and  high, 
A  lane  in  line  betwixt  the  crags  that  thunder  as  we  fly, 
And,  lo,  th'  eternal  walls  are  cleft,  and  into  blackness  blind, 
We  jam  her  through  the  champing  jaws  with  half  the  deep  be 
hind. 

There's  lace,  and  knives,  and  Yankee  weed,  and  English  cloth  to 

wear, 

As  lightly  flung  as  e'er  was  swung  the  foam  of  Finisterre; 
And  many  a  gars  from  Er  to  Groix,  and  maid  of  Monts  d'Arre'e 
Shall  bless  the  sail  that  dared  the  gale  and  beat  the  Douaniers. 

The  Fraudeurs. — M.  M. 

GRAFTON  was  not  pleased.     Born  at  Clanvowe,  and  in 
the  employ  of  the  Clanvowes  since  at  the  age  of  eight 

109 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

he  had  been  intrusted  with  the  cares  of  knife-cleaning  in 
the  manorial  pantry,  he  considered  himself  part  of  the 
family  dignity  and  pomp — and  by  no  means  the  most 
negligible  part,  either.  So  profound,  indeed,  was  the  opin 
ion  he  held  of  his  own  value  and  importance  that  Sir 
Hubert  alone,  though  even  he  was  still  and  would  always 
remain  to  him  "the  young  master,"  ever  ventured  to  op 
pose  or  chide  him. 

From  these  circumstances  sprang  Grafton's  defects, 
similar  to  those  sometimes  observable  in  other  human  in 
stitutions  of  long  and  unquestioned  standing.  He  was 
meddlesome,  he  was  officious  and  authoritative  and  ob 
stinate  to  an  incredible  degree,  but,  since  undeniable  virtues 
remained  as  a  counterpoise  to  these  vices,  the  mere  idea 
of  pensioning  him  off  had  never  entered  anybody's  head- 
It  was  he  who  had  suggested  with  deferential  cleverness 
that  he  should  accompany  her  ladyship  to  Brittany,  "in 
order,"  as  he  had  told  Sir  Hubert,  "to  relieve  her  of  all 
the  troubles  and  cares  of  a  foreign  sojourn."  And  fully 
aware  that  no  one  else  on  earth  could  be  so  efficient  in  the 
organization  and  stewardship  of  her  establishment,  the 
just  then  somewhat  worried  diplomat  thought  that  this 
seemed  the  best  possible  plan. 

Sir  Hubert  and  his  lovely  wife  had  never  been  separated 
for  any  great  length  of  time,  and  it  was  not  without 
qualms  that  he  contemplated  an  enforcedly  protracted 
absence;  for  although  he  knew  how  well  she  was  qualified 
to  take  care  of  herself  under  all  circumstances,  she  was 
so  infinitely  precious  to  him  that  his  ordinary  impassi 
bility  was  not  proof  against  haunting  anxiety,  that  curse 
of  all  true  affection. 

"You  will  watch  over  Lady  Clanvowe,  Grafton,"  he 
had  said,  at  the  last.  "She  is  so  unselfish  that  she  never 
considers  herself  at  all."  And  the  "Yes,  Sir  Hubert,  I 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

will  watch,"  constituted  for  both  a  solemn  engagement 
to  try  to  prevent  if  possible  that  Lady  Clanvowe  should 
drown  herself,  break  her  bones,  starve  herself  by  for 
getting  the  hours  of  meals,  or  otherwise  damage  her  ex 
quisite,  impulsive  little  person.  Further  those  two  Brit 
ish  minds  did  not  soar  at  the  time. 

Since  the  arrival  at  Rozkavel,  however,  Grafton's  ideas 
on  the  subject  had  been  widening  painfully.  To  begin 
with,  he  found  himself  in  the  position  of  a  hen  attempt 
ing  from  the  bank  to  follow  up  the  adventures  of  a  duck 
ling  in  forbidden  waters,  since — to  continue  the  simile — 
beyond  the  safe  standing  -  ground  of  Rozkavel  Fort  lay 
an  element  utterly  unknown  to  him — namely,  Brittany. 
Language,  customs,  people,  manners,  all  were  equally 
strange,  and  he  included  all  in  a  heartfelt  and  sweeping 
hatred.  He  had  sojourned  with  his  master  and  mistress 
in  most  parts  of  Continental  Europe,  and  had  even  ac 
companied  them  to  Asia  and  America,  but  no  other 
country  had  aroused  his  insular  prejudices  or  inspired 
him  with  distrust  and  apprehension  to  the  same  degree. 

"  Her  ladyship's  just  like  a  colt  let  loose  in  the  pad 
dock  after  a  rainy  week  in  the  stable,"  he  thought  to  him 
self.  "She's  not  the  same  at  all."  And  he  turned  ma 
levolent  ears  and  eyes  upon  all  who  approached  her — all 
excepting  Olier  de  Frehel,  for,  as  he  reflected,  eagerly 
grasping  at  this  small  crumb  of  comfort,  "he's  a  respect 
able  young  man,  at  least,  and  his  dress-coat  was  cut  in 
London,  I'd  swear!"  It  would  require  some  forceful 
combination  of  circumstances  to  convince  him  that  daily 
intercourse  between  his  beautiful  mistress  and  so  very 
good-looking  a  youth  could  so  much  as  cause  local  gos 
sip.  Lady  Clanvowe  of  Clanvowe  Hall  and  Grassmere 
Castle  was  above  such  things.  Besides,  to  do  him  justice, 
he  knew  and  respected  her  far  too  much  to  connect  the 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

mildest  sort  of  flirtation  with  a  woman  of  her  rare  and 
refined  type. 

On  all  accounts  save  this  one  poor  Graf  ton's  days  and 
nights  were  loaded  with  carking  care.  If  it  had  always 
been  irksome  to  Lady  Clanvowe  to  be  watched  over  and 
followed  about,  now  she  looked  absolutely  resentful  when 
he  approached  her  with  a  coat  or  a  scarf  during  her  night 
ly  promenades  along  the  Fort  glacis;  and  once  when  he 
had  condescended  so  far  as  actually  to  implore  her  not  to 
swim  out  beyond  the  breakers  unaccompanied  by  a  boat, 
she  had  come  perilously  near  telling  him  to  mind  his  busi 
ness.  Of  course,  she  had  not  said  so ;  but  the  flash  of  those 
deceptive  eyes,  that  were  never  two  minutes  alike,  had 
spoken  for  her,  and  he  had  made — for  him — a  precipitate 
and  almost  undignified  retreat.  What  could  the  wretched 
man  do?  Sir  Hubert  was  now  entirely  beyond  reach, 
and  Jwala-Singh,  instead  of  siding  with  his  colleague,  saw 
only  with  Lady  Clanvowe's  eyes,  and  would  have  calmly 
preceded  her  down  the  crater  of  a  volcano  had  she  bidden 
him  do  so.  It  was  enough  to  make  a  devoted  major- 
domo  tear  out  his  hair  in  handfuls  to  find  himself  so  help 
less,  but,  fortunately,  Grafton's  gray  locks  were  getting 
too  thin  to  allow  of  undue  wastefulness,  and  he  perforce 
abstained. 

"If  her  ladyship,"  he  ventured  to  Olier  (who  spoke 
perfect  English),  while  helping  him  out  of  his  light  sum 
mer  overcoat  one  night — "if  her  ladyship  should  happen 
to  go  on  board  after  dinner,  would  you  be  so  kind,  my 
lord,  as  to  suggest  her  changing  her  evening  -  dress  for 
something  warmer?  Her  ladyship  had  a  severe  cold  in 
the  early  spring,  and  her  throat  is  still  delicate." 

For  the  first  time  Olier  looked  kindly  at  the  hatchet- 
faced  butler. 

"I  shall  certainly  attempt  what  you  ask,  Graf  ton,  but 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

I  am  afraid  Lady  Clanvowe  may  not  like  it.  She  is  not 
fond  of  being  taken  care  of,  I  have  noticed." 

Grafton's  pale  eyes  turned  ceilingward  as  if  to  take 
Heaven  to  witness  that  this  was  indeed  the  case. 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  he  said,  bringing  them  respect 
fully  down  again  to  the  level  of  Olier's  amused  face.  "I 
beg  your  lordship's  pardon  for  having  presumed  so  far." 
And  with  the  gesture  of  a  grand  chamberlain  ushering 
the  ambassador  of  a  friendly  Power  into  the  presence  of 
his  sovereign,  he  threw  wide  the  door  of  the  transformed 
armory. 

"I've  got  my  job  cut  out  if  I  am  to  mediate  between 
Lady  Clanvowe  and  Grafton,"  Olier  thought,  as  he  ad 
vanced  to  greet  her.  But  for  the  present  at  least  his 
mission  was  turned  into  a  sinecure  by  the  appearance  of 
Rouanez,  who  wore,  instead  of  one  of  her  customary  di 
aphanous  white  dresses,  a  blue  serge  of  the  simplest  make, 
with  two  tiny  golden  anchors  serving  as  its  sole  adorn 
ment  on  the  tight-fitting  high  collar. 

"The  'Kestrel'  is  here  once  more,"  she  called,  joyfully, 
"and  as  I  want  you  to  come  for  a  short  cruise  to-night, 
I  took  it  for  granted  you  wouldn't  mind  my  being  in  my 
captain's  uniform!" 

"I  don't  mind  it  in  the  least,"  he  answered,  delighted 
to  be  quit  of  his  promise  so  cheaply,  "and  there  is  noth 
ing  I  shall  enjoy  more  than  going  out  on  that  model  boat 
of  yours,  Lady  Clanvowe.  But  I  wouldn't  be  surprised 
if  we  are  in  for  rough  weather.  It's  beginning  to  blow 
up  pretty  lively!" 

"All  the  better.  It  will  just  suit  my  purpose,"  she 
added,  in  a  lower  tone. 

"Oh!  You  have  a  special  purpose  to-night?"  he 
asked,  offering  her  his  arm  to  pass  on  to  the  dining- 
room. 

8  II 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Yes,  a  very  special  one,  which  I'll  tell  you  later." 
And  she  began  to  speak  of  something  else. 

It  was  blowing  freshly  when,  immediately  after  swal 
lowing  their  coffee,  they  descended  to  the  beach,  where 
the  ' '  Kestrel's ' '  canot  was  drawn  up  on  the  shingle.  Dark 
ness  had  not  yet  quite  set  in,  and  a  young  moon,  as  yet 
lustreless  and  dull  as  unpolished  silver,  hung  listlessly 
above  a  low  bank  of  fog  that  gathered  half  the  horizon 
in  a  veil  of  mystery.  Later,  the  night  would  be  velvet- 
black,  and  Olier,  glancing  at  the  dark  rocks  where  the 
surf  was  already  spouting  in  tall  jets  of  foam,  wondered 
a  little  at  the  "special  purpose"  which  made  the  lovely 
captain  of  the  "Kestrel"  risk  her  darling  yacht  along  so 
grim  a  lee  shore.  But  he  did  not  venture  to  question  her. 
for  on  the  water  she  was  a  very  different  person  from  the 
easy-going  "comrade"  he  always  found  her  at  Rozkavel. 

As  to  the  "  Kestrel,"  Olier  knew  that  she  was  always 
ready  for  anything:  a  quiet,  proud,  dignified,  plucky  ship, 
where  every  object  was  to  be  found  in  its  proper  place, 
every  man  at  his  proper  post,  and  really  ordered  more  in 
the  style  of  a  man-of-war  than  of  a  luxurious  pleasure 
craft.  She  was  a  big  boat,  too,  with  a  crew  of  forty 
sailors,  engineers,  and  stokers,  under  the  command  of  a 
master  and  three  mates.  But,  contrary  to  all  rules  fol 
lowed  on  private  yachts,  there  were  no  stewards,  no  but 
ler,  and  not  the  shadow  of  a  stewardess,  though  the  galley 
was  occupied  by  an  excellent  cook  and  his  efficient  as 
sistants.  Once  when  Olier  had  asked  Lady  Clanvowe  her 
reason  for  dispensing  with  functionaries  usually  regarded 
as  so  indispensable,  she  had  explained  that  "land-lubbers 
exasperated  her,"  and  that,  moreover,  she  had  never  felt 
the  need  of  having  a  woman  staggering  in  her  track  from 
one  end  of  her  stateroom  to  the  other.  Smart  was  cer 
tainly  the  word  best  expressing  everything  aboard,  from 

114 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  manner  in  which  the  men  handled  the  canot  that  took 
them  alongside  her  white  ladder,  to  Lady  Clanvowe's 
business-like  and  entirely  natural  way  of  ascending  the 
upper  bridge  and  relieving  Captain  Penruddock  of  com 
mand.  Olier  already  knew  that  Cornish  mariner  well, 
and  held  him  in  a  high  esteem,  which  was  in  no  wise  di 
minished  by  the  captain's  unaffected  modesty  and  his 
profound  confidence  in  his  owner's  talents  as  commander 
and  navigator  of  the  "  Kestrel." 

"Her  ladyship's  a  wonder,  sir,"  he  had  told  Olier  dur 
ing  a  previous  excursion.  "I've  known  in  my  time— 
and  for  the  punishment  of  my  sins — yacht-owners  who 
played  at  navigation.  Some  of  them  had  really  studied 
the  craft,  and  some  had  not,  but  the  results  were  the 
same,  more  or  less:  a  capful  of  breeze  blew  all  trace  of 
knowledge  out  of  their  brains.  Now,  her  ladyship  is  dif 
ferent.  She's  a  better  sailor  than  I  am  myself;  never  at 
a  loss  what  to  do,  and  always  cool  as  a  cucumber — that's 
the  only  way  to  express  it.  Indeed,  I  never  feel  the 
'  Kestrel '  so  safe  as  when  in  her  hands." 

To-night,  however,  Olier  noticed  that  though  Captain 
Penruddock's  period  of  responsibility  had  come  to  an 
end  for  the  time  being,  he  was  keeping  up  a  sort  of  aim 
less  pendulum-promenade  along  the  deck — up  hill  and 
down  dale,  as  the  ship  climbed  the  rough  combers — in 
stead  of  retiring  to  his  room  for  a  smoke  as  he  invariably 
did;  thus  indicating  with  unconscious  ostentation  how 
useless  he  considered  his  presence  the  minute  Lady  Clan- 
vowe  took  charge.  Then,  too,  after  watching  him  for  a 
few  moments  as  he  passed  and  repassed  in  front  of  the 
lighted  chart-room,  Olier  became  almost  certain  that  he 
could  read  a  worried  expression  in  the  deep  lines  of  the 
captain's  face. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  he  thought,  bracing 

"5 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

himself  as  the  ship  suddenly  dropped  her  nose  into  a 
watery  valley,  and,  turning  round,  he  glanced  at  Rouanez, 
who  with  a  quartermaster  at  her  side,  was  heading  the 
"Kestrel"  into  the  black  heart  of  the  rising  gale.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  ran  down  the  steps  of  the  ladder,  and,  quickly 
consulting  the  aneroid  in  the  head  of  the  companion-way, 
went  back  to  her  post  without  speaking.  Something  un 
usual  was  certainly  taking  place.  Could  it  be — and  yet 
how  could  it  be  ? — related  to  Rouanez's  "special  purpose  "  ? 
For  the  captain  had  certainly  not  been  admitted  to  that 
secret,  of  which  he  himself  was  still  ignorant.  Considered 
thus,  Penruddock's  attitude  acquired  a  sudden  interest, 
and  Olier  presently  bore  down  upon  that  perturbed  officer 
with  intent  to  discover  what  was  in  the  wind. 

"Where  are  we  off  to?"  he  asked,  smiling.  "From 
present  indications  I  should  say  America!" 

Captain  Penruddock  did  not  smile  in  answer;  his  eyes 
narrowed  a  little  as  if  seeking  something  in  the  gray 
murk  ahead ;  then  he  softly  and  nautically  swore  to  him 
self. 

"Why,  what's  up?"  Olier  asked,  genuinely  astonished 
this  time.  "Has  anything  gone  wrong?" 

They  had  reached  the  door  of  the  chart-room,  and,  with 
the  brusqueness  born  of  sudden  resolve,  the  "second  in 
command,"  as  he  always  punctiliously  designated  him 
self,  beckoned  the  naval  officer  in.  "Can  you  give  me  a 
few  minutes,  sir?"  he  asked,  formally,  dropping  the  tone 
of  deferential  camaraderie  to  which  Olier  had  led  the  way 
from  their  first  meeting. 

"Certainly.     I  don't  suppose  Lady  Clanvowe  needs  us." 

"Neither  do  I,"  Penruddock  answered,  almost  curtly, 
and  again  Olier  stared. 

"  Well,  then,  tell  me  what  weighs  on  your  mind,  cap 
tain,  for  certainly  something  does,  and,  if  I  can  be  of  any 

116 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

service  to  you,  I  need  not  add  that  it  will  give  me  much 
pleasure." 

Penruddock  sat  down  on  a  swivel-chair  before  the  chart- 
table,  ran  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  inside  the  col 
lar  of  his  smart,  gold-laced  white  drill  coat,  and  cleared 
his  throat,  as  if  something  stuck  there  obstructing  his 
power  of  speech.  He  was  about  fifty-five;  a  tall,  gray- 
haired  man  of  the  British  naval -officer  rather  than  the 
conventional  merchant  -  service  type,  with  the  finely 
modelled  features  of  his  Celtic  shire,  and  small,  close- 
cropped  side-whiskers,  almost  white.  Once  he  must  have 
been  remarkably  handsome,  and  even  now,  in  spite  of 
weather  and  hardship,  his  was  a  striking  face,  lighted  up 
by  eyes  of  singular  keenness  that  seldom  smiled  and  yet 
never  looked  sullen  or  harsh. 

"Monsieur  de  Frehel,"  he  said  at  last,  "are  you — yes 
or  no — aware  of  what  is  going  on?" 

"What  is  going  on?"  Olier  asked,  looking  straight  at 
him.  "Going  on  where?" 

Captain  Penruddock  pointed  over  his  shoulder  in  the 
direction  of  the  Breton  coast,  then,  bringing  his  hand 
back  in  front  of  him,  said,  significantly,  "There — and 
here." 

"  No,"  Olier  said,  quietly. 

A  puzzled  look  amounting  almost  to  bewilderment  came 
into  Penruddock's  eyes.  He  caught  up  a  pair  of  com 
passes  and  mechanically  measured  the  width  of  the  "Pas 
sage  du  Four"  on  the  huge  chart  before  him;  his  fingers, 
led  by  habit,  accurately  fixing  the  two  sharp  points  on 
Ouessant-town  and  Breles  respectively,  but  his  mind  for 
the  time  being  as  unconscious  of  these  two  points  of  a 
sailor's  reckoning  as  though  they  had  never  existed. 

"I  cannot  bring  myself  to  the  rudeness  of  putting  my 
question  differently,"  he  hazarded,  without  looking  at  his 

117 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

companion,  "and  I  must  ask  you  to  believe,  sir,  that  in 
any  case  I  am  not  prompted  by  impertinent  curiosity  or 
the  faintest  shade  of  disloyalty  to  Lady  Clan vo we." 

Olier  nodded.  "  Please  repeat  your  question  in  any 
form  you  think  best,"  he  said,  evidently  quite  unruffled 
by  his  interlocutor's  persistence. 

Captain  Penruddock  threw  down  the  compasses,  half 
rose,  and,  sitting  down  again,  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead. 

"I  am  in  a — a — a — very  disagreeable  predicament," 
he  explained,  "  entirely  at  a  loss  how  to  act,  and,  if  you 
don't  consent  to  help  me,  I  do  not  know  what  I  shall 
do." 

There  was  so  much  distress  in  the  voice  now,  the  honest, 
bronzed  face  was  so  troubled,  that  Olier  spoke  at  once  in 
quite  a  different  tone. 

"  How  can  I  help  you,  my  dear  Penruddock,  if  you  do 
not  tell  me  what  disturbs  you?" 

"  I  thought  you  could  guess." 

"  You  thought  wrong,  then." 

"You  seemed  to  me  to  be  in  Lady  Clanvowe's  con 
fidence,  you  see." 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it  ?  Speak,  man.  Don't 
beat  about  the  bush  like  that." 

"  Strictly  speaking,  then,  I  am  concerning  myself  about 
matters  which  are  beyond  my  province.  I  am  hired  to 
command  this  ship  in  its  owner's  and  official  captain's 
absence,  nothing  more.  But,  as  it  happens,  Lady  Clan- 
vowe  has  made  me  her  debtor  for  life  by  doing  for  me 
more  than  any  other  living  creature  has  ever  done,  and 
I  am  grateful.  When,  therefore,  I  am  led  to  believe  that 
she  is  running  into  a  grave  danger,  is  it  not  pardonable 
that  I  should  forget  everything  else,  including  discipline? 
I  would  not  say  all  this  even  to  Sir  Hubert,  Monsieur  de 

118 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Frehel,  and  it  is  only  because  you  arc  Lady  Clanvowc's 
compatriot,  and  perhaps  her  ally,  that  I  do  so  to  you." 

Olier  had  lighted  a  cigarette  and  was  industriously 
blowing  rings  of  blue  smoke  straight  before  him.  His 
attitude  was  not  in  the  least  defiant,  nor  even  lacking  in 
courtesy,  and  the  smoke  rings  were  useful  guiding  points 
to  focus  his  eyes  upon. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  leads  you  to  believe  that  Lady 
Clanvowe  is  about  to  run  into  danger?"  he  asked,  calmly. 
"You  are  not  dramatically  inclined,  Captain  Penruddock, 
and  your  words  are  too  significant  not  to  be  taken  seri 
ously.  Yet  for  my  part  I  am  absolutely  at  a  loss  to  ac 
count  for  them." 

"  Since  you  will  have  it  so,"  Penruddock  rejoined,  "  I'll 
tell  you  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to  end." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  Olier  said,  with  admirably  re 
pressed  curiosity. 

"Well,  a  week  ago,  while  on  my  way  to  rejoin  the 
'  Kestrel,'  lying  alongside  the  quay  at  Falmouth,  where  we 
had  gone  for  provisions  of  sorts,  I  came  face  to  face  with 
a  fellow-townsman  of  mine  who  is  forwarding-agent  to 
one  of  our  chief  gun  manufacturers.  I  would  have  passed 
on  with  a  quick  '  good-evening,'  for  I  was  in  a  hurry,  and 
he  seemed  a  bit  the  worse  for  liquor,  but  he  insisted  on 
buttonholing  me  in  order  to  find  out  where  I  was  bound 
to,  where  I  had  come  from  last,  and  other  similar  trivial 
details. 

" '  Going  back  to  Brittany,  eh?'  he  said,  with  a  sidelong 
look.  'There'll  be  a  rumpus  there  before  long,  or  else 
my  name's  not  Tregarthen.' 

'"What  are  you  talking  about?'  I  asked,  pricking  up 
my  ears  a  bit,  for  I  thought  how  annoying  it  would  be 
for  Lady  Clanvowe,  who  is  enjoying  the  thought  of  a  long, 
quiet  summer,  if  what  Tregarthen  designated  as  a  rumpus 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

came  to  upset  her  plans.  Still  Tregarthen,  whom  I  have 
known  ever  since  we  were  boys  together  in  Penzance,  is 
not  a  very  clever  chap,  and  on  second  thoughts  I  felt  like 
laughing  at  myself  for  listening  to  his  gab,  but  for  once 
I  was  doing  him  an  injustice. 

" '  Some  political  party  or  other  there  is  arming  itself,' 
he  said,  lowering  his  voice,  'and  that  pretty  completely, 
too.  I  could  tell  you  who's  conveying  the  contraband  of 
war,  and  the  name  of  the  consignee,  but  mum's  the 
word.  I  don't  want  to  get  into  trouble.' 

" '  Nonsense,'  I  said,  to  lead  him  on.  For,  although  I 
couldn't  have  told  what  impelled  me,  I  was  getting  anx 
ious  to  hear  all  he  knew. 

'"Not  a  bit  of  it,'  he  asserted.  'Walk  with  me  to  the 
end  of  the  parade  and  I'll  tell  you.' 

"  It  was  raining,  and  we  had  the  place  almost  to  our 
selves.  '  See  here,  Penruddock,'  he  said,  puffing  the  smoke 
of  a  vile  cigar  in  my  face,  'what  I'm  going  to  say  is  to 
remain  between  us,'  and,  without  giving  me  time  to  ac 
quiesce,  he  went  on.  'The  man  who's  carrying  those 
guns  is  the  owner  and  master  of  a  little  steamer  that 
seems  to  be  all  hatches,  and  has  a  curious  habit  of  chang 
ing  its  name  whenever  convenient.  He  knows  his  busi 
ness,  and  he  has  had  a  finger  in  every  revolutionary  deal 
of  the  past  twenty  years.  Now  he's  been  crossing  back 
and  forth  to  some  little  God-forsaken  island  on  the  Finis- 
terre  coast,  and  his  bills  of  lading  are  made  out  to  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Ros — Ros — Roscaivle,  a  rich  chap  I 
should  imagine,  if  it's  his  own  money  that  pays  the 
freight.'  Fortunately  we  were  walking  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  just  then,  and  he  could  not  see  my  face. 

"Queer  name,'  I  said,  after  a  while.  'How  do  you 
write  it?' 

" '  R-o-s-c-a-i-v-l-e,'  he  spelled,  slowly.  '  Some  Breton 

1 20 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

chief,  I  should  think.  They  say  those  old  beggars  are  sour 
on  the  government.'  To  make  a  long  story  short,  I  got 
rid  of  the  man  as  soon  as  I  could  by  means  of  a  drink  or 
two  in  a  near-by  bar,  and  went  aboard  puzzling  my  head 
sorely.  The  different  spelling  of  the  name  might  be  due 
to  Tregarthen,  and  yet  again  it  might  be  done  on  pur 
pose  by  ...  by  ...  the  consignee."  Captain  Penruddock 
paused  long  enough  to  give  Olier  time  to  say  something 
if  he  wished,  and,  finding  that  that  imperturbable  man 
was  quietly  lighting  a  fresh  cigarette  from  the  butt  of  the 
old  one,  slowly  resumed: 

"  Lady  Clanvowe  is  the  last  of  the  Rozkavels,  Monsieur 
de  Frehel."  And  again  he  paused. 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  Olier  said,  indifferently. 

"Also,"  Penruddock  continued,  "she  is  passionately 
fond  of  her  country." 

"That's  nothing  extraordinary  for  her  to  be,  is  it?" 

"  Yes  and  no.  Because  she  was  practically  brought 
up  in  England,  as  you  know,  and  has  seldom  set  foot  on 
Breton  soil  since  her  marriage." 

"  Even  so,  I'm  still  in  the  dark,  Captain  Penruddock. 
You  do  not  imagine,  I  suppose,  that  Lady  Clanvowe  is 
plotting  against  the  French  Government,  do  you?" 

There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence.  The  two  sailors 
— the  blunt,  matter-of-fact  Cornishman  and  the  polished, 
keen-witted  Breton  noble  —  were  looking  straight  into 
each  other's  eyes,  and  neither  gaze  was  lowered. 

"I  admit,"  Captain  Penruddock  said,  "that  it  does  not 
seem  unlikely  to  me." 

Olier  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  You  are  raving,  my 
dear  captain." 

"  Perhaps.  But  for  many  reasons  too  long  to  detail  I 
have  some  cause  to  hold  this  opinion.  I  would  go  to 
hell  and  back  again  for  Lady  Clanvowe's  sake,  Monsieur 

121 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

de  Frehel,  if  it  could  give  her  a  minute's  pleasure.  But, 
by  God!  this  is  a  tall  order — if  I  am  right — for  her  I 
mean,  because  for  myself  ..."  He  broke  off,  rose,  and 
came  closer  to  Olier. 

"It's  a  life-and-death  game,  sir  ...  for  her — do  you 
understand?" 

Olier,  too,  had  risen,  his  face  suddenly  set  like  flint. 

"Why  don't  you  tell  that  to  her?"  he  asked,  stiffly. 
"Do  you  suppose  that  I  would  dare  approach  her  with 
such  a  cock-and-bull  story?" 

Penruddock's  suspicions  for  the  first  time  began  to 
seem  to  him  less  well-founded,  and  his  scrutinizing  eyes 
wavered. 

"It  would  be  unfortunate  to  put  the  idea  into  her 
head  if  it  is  not  already  there,"  he  slowly  pronounced,  his 
brow  puckered  with  anxiety. 

Olier  burst  out  laughing.  "That's  a  new  way  of  look 
ing  at  it,"  he  said,  lightly.  "I  wouldn't  risk  it  if  I  were 
you  .  .  .  and,"  he  suddenly  added,  more  gravely,  "if  I 
were  you,  too,  Penruddock,  I  wouldn't  breathe  a  word  of 
all  this  to  a  soul,  here  or  in  England.  It  is  never  ad 
visable  to  spread  unfounded  rumors  of  that  sort." 

"Who  d'you  take  me  for?"  the  elder  man  indignantly 
remonstrated.  "Bandy  her  name  about?  I  told  you 
why  I  spoke  to  you;  but  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor 
that  come  what  may  I  sha'n't  do  so  to  any  one  else." 

"Thank  you.  And  now  let's  go  and  see  what  your 
charming  conspirator  is  doing.  The  weather  must  be  still 
thickening,  to  judge  by  the  way  the  '  Kestrel '  is  putting 
down  her  forefoot." 

"You  go,  Monsieur  de  Frehel,"  Penruddock  suggested. 
"If  I've  been  accusing  her  wrongly,  I'd  as  soon  not  meet 
her  just  now."  And  he  held  the  door  open  for  Olier  to 
pass  out. 

122 


CHAPTER  X 

I  love  you,  dwellings  of  the  long  ago, 

Whence  my  youth  issued  to  unclouded  skies; 

Beneath  your  eaves  my  heart  her  nest  doth  know, 
And  with  the  wren  and  martlet  homeward  flies. 

Fair-walled  ye  stand,  unworn  by  time  or  change, 
Yet  your  deep-linteled  windows  seem  to  be 

Like  to  an  old  man's  faded  eyes  and  strange, 
Musing  upon  a  near  eternity. 

Round  ye  a  glamour  of  old  sunlight  shines, 
Drowsed  by  the  lulling  call  of  dove  to  dove, 

(Ah,  winged  memories!)  and  your  woven  vines 
Flower  and  breathe  sweetly  from  the  dust  of  Love. 

Shades  of  the  generations  darkly  drawn 

Lengthen  themselves  athwart  your  thresholds  gray; 

Cradled  have  ye  the  dreams  of  many  a  dawn, 
And  covered  o'er  the  fires  of  many  a  day. 

La  Chanson  de  la  Bretagne. 

To  his  surprise,  the  first  thing  that  caught  Olier's  eye 
on  stepping  on  deck  was  the  life-boat  hanging  outboard 
in  davits,  ready  to  be  lowered  at  a  minute's  notice.  The 
night  was  every  bit  as  black  and  stormy  as  he  had  ex 
pected,  and  the  wind  was  plucking  the  wave-tops  into 
pelting  spindrift  with  a  continuous  hissing  sound ;  but  the 
"  Kestrel  "  scudded  from  crest  to  crest  as  unconcernedly 
and  nearly  as  lightly  as  a  toy  boat  on  the  ripples  of  a 
duck-pond,  and  Olier  felt  his  heart  warm  to  the  perfect 
ship. 

123 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Above  him,  on  the  upper  bridge,  Lady  Clanvowe,  in 
sou'wester  and  oil-skins,  thrust  her  chin  over  the  canvas 
dodger  and  peered  down ;  then  she  beckoned,  and,  as  he 
obediently  climbed  the  ladder,  he  heard  her  hailing  the 
forward  lookout: 

"Fo'c'sle  there!  do  you  see  anything  broad  abeam?" 

"  No,  nothing  yet,  m'lady !"  came  back  in  muffled  mono 
tone,  and  Olier,  who  had  reached  her  side,  asked,  smiling: 
"Watching  for  derelicts?" 

"No,"  she  answered,  a  trifle  irritably  as  he  thought — 
"for  a  confounded  rock  that  must  have  melted  into  the 
dark." 

"I  would  leave  that  rock  be  for  to-night,"  he  said  in 
Breton,  low  and  distinctly,  looking  gravely  at  her. 

"What  for?" 

"Because  I  have  something  serious  to  tell  you  before 
you  go  further  in  any  direction." 

She  glanced  quickly  at  him,  read  the  weight  of  meaning 
in  the  deep,  gray  eyes  fixed  upon  hers,  and,  with  her  usual 
quickness  of  decision,  clapped  a  whistle  between  her  square, 
little,  white  teeth  and  blew  shrilly.  In  twenty  seconds  the 
"  Kestrel,"  with  engines  unreduced  in  speed,  was  tracing 
a  large,  wallowing  circle  across  the  charging  seas,  heading 
for  home,  heeled  to  a  wind  alive  with  scurring  spume 
that  stung  the  faces  of  those  on  the  upper  bridge  like 
nettles. 

"What's  up?"  Lady  Clanvowe  demanded,  as  soon  as 
the  manoeuvre  had  been  successfully  accomplished. 

"I'd  sooner  tell  you  later,"  Olier  bawled  in  her  ear. 
"It's  too  long  a  story  to  be  discussed  whilst  we  are  pirou- 
eting  like  this." 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  change  of  direction,  bringing 
the  "  Kestrel  "  broadside  to  the  wind,  made  the  keeping 
of  one's  feet  a  matter  of  paramount  importance. 

124 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"  Don't,"  Olier  began  again,  "  relinquish  the  bridge.  Act 
as  you  always  do." 

Lady  Clanvowe  nodded,  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and 
went  on  staring  before  her  into  the  thick  blackness  that 
hid  the  bight  of  Rozkavel  Bay,  while  Olier  wondered  at 
her  submissiveness.  Another  woman,  he  reflected,  would 
have  either  declined  to  act  without  further  enlighten 
ment,  or  else  would  have  showed  temper  at  being  asked 
to  remain  in  ignorance  until  better  opportunity  offered. 
She,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  wholly  taken  up  with  her 
present  duties,  not  one  of  which  she  neglected,  until,  on 
reaching  the  partial  shelter  of  the  cliffs,  she  sent  for  Cap 
tain  Penruddock,  handed  over  the  command,  and,  acting 
on  another  hint  from  Olier,  told  him  to  run  the  yacht 
out  to  sea  for  the  night,  and  to  be  back  for  orders  next 
morning  at  ten.  The  slung  -  out  life  -  boat  screamed  her 
way  down  to  the  water,  unhooked,  shoved  off,  and,  hustled 
by  the  waves  like  a  cork,  made  for  the  shore;  Olier,  who 
could  have  steered  blindfolded  there,  standing  up  at  the 
tiller  in  the  stern;  and  after  twenty  minutes  of  lively 
dancing,  he  and  Rouanez  were  left  alone  on  the  shin 
gle,  to  watch  the  white  boat  labor  back  into  the  thick 
gloom,  its  oars  straddling  through  the  surf  like  some  very 
precise  and  methodical  insect's  legs — an  insect  too  self- 
respecting  to  be  worried  or  put  out  of  time  by  mere 
weather. 

Neither  spoke,  even  then,  and  it  was  only  after  several 
minutes  that  Rouanez,  unbuttoning  the  ear-flaps  of  her 
sou'wester,  lifted  to  his  a  pair  of  questioning  eyes  that 
gleamed  curiously  in  the  clear  white  light  of  the  little 
lantern  he  held.  "Tell  me  at  once,"  they  seemed  to  say, 
and,  walking  slowly  by  her  side  toward  the  Fort,  he  did  so. 

"Poor  old  Penruddock!"  she  commented,  when  he  had 
concluded.  "  Nice,  devoted  soul,  Penruddock,  but  I  am 

"5 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

sorry  to  find  him  so  inquisitive.  However,  it  does  not 
in  the  least  matter;  he's  honor  personified,  and,  besides," 
she  concluded,  with  a  sudden  low  laugh,  "I  hold  him  in 
the  hollow  of  my  hand."  She  formed  a  cup  with  her  lit 
tle  palm,  held  it  up  toward  Olier,  and,  pointing  with  calm 
assurance  to  its  rose-leaf  concavity,  repeated:  "The  hol 
low  of  my  hand — there!" 

"Will  you  tell  him  that  I  spoke  to  you  of  what  he 
said?"  Olier  asked. 

"Certainly  not.  Why  should  I?  Forewarned  is  fore 
armed,  you  know.  No  need  for  that  sort  of  explanation." 

"Well!"  Olier  exclaimed.     "Well!" 

"Well,  what?" 

"Oh!  I  was  only  wondering  how  it  comes  that  your 
soul  and  heart  and  pluck  should  have  been  imprisoned  in 
a  feminine  envelope." 

Again  she  laughed  at  the  naivetd  of  the  compliment. 
This  boy  was  in  the  way  of  becoming  an  indispensable 
source  of  amusement,  she  felt.  "Envelope  and  contents 
make  ires  ban  menage  together,"  she  retorted.  "But  look 
here,  Olier,  things  are  going  awfully  slowly,  I  am  afraid. 
If  we  don't  hurry,  the  hour  will  be  missed — I  mean  the 
psychological  moment  for  action." 

"I  know  that  as  well  as  you  do,"  he  said,  stopping 
short  a  few  yards  from  the  iron  postern.  "I  will  see 
Keben  de  Kerhardec  to-morrow,  and  come  in  the  even 
ing  to  report  to  you." 

"You  needn't  do  that;  I'll  join  you  at  the  cross-roads 
of  Tremaza,  near  the  Calvary,  and  go  on  from  there. 
You'll  ride,  of  course?" 

"Yes,  naturally;  it's  too  far  to  walk.  I  had  better  not 
go  in  with  you  now,  perhaps." 

"  Not  perhaps,  but  certainly.  It's  awfully  late  already, 
and  your  clothes  must  be  drenched.  Good-night,  Olier — 

126 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Kenavo*  Await  me  to-morrow  at  four  sharp,  at  the  foot 
of  the  Cross." 

"At  the  foot  of  the  Cross,"  he  echoed;  and  then  they 
looked  at  each  other  for  a  second,  as  if  the  words  had 
fallen  strangely  on  the  thick,  damp  air. 

"Shall  I  ring?"  he  asked,  stepping  toward  the  pre 
posterous  electric  button. 

"No.  I've  trained  them  never  to  expect  me,  but  never 
to  be  out  of  the  way  when  wanted;  and  this  surly  en 
trance  has  a  new  perfection.  Wait  and  see." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  her  pocket,  pulled  out  a  gold 
chain  weighted  with  pretty  trifles,  and  showed  him  the 
tiniest  of  keys.  "Bluebeard's  task  would  have  been 
simplified  if  Joseph  Bramah  had  lived  then,"  she  said, 
lightly.  "See  how  an  inch  of  silver  masters  tons  of  solid 
iron."  She  pushed  aside  one  of  the  seemingly  firm  bolt- 
heads,  felt  for  the  small  key-hole,  and  without  an  effort 
unlocked  and  rolled  back  the  whole  well-oiled  mass.  "I 
merely  tell  them  to  leave  the  inside  bars  down,"  she  ex 
plained. 

"But  where  in  the  world  do  you  find  workmen  capable 
of  executing  such  things?"  he  asked,  much  entertained. 

"I  have  a  sapient  locksmith  in  my  train,  my  good 
friend — the  under- footman.  It's  always  well  to  be  pro 
vided  against  emergencies  when  one  goes  to  forlorn  places!" 

She  turned  to  shake  hands,  and,  before  Olier  could  raise 
a  finger  to  assist  her,  she  had  closed  the  door,  and  the 
light  patter  of  her  little  sea-boots  on  the  pavement  of  the 
court-yard  reached  him  over  the  wall.  He  listened  to 
them  as  long  as  they  could  be  heard,  and  longer,  for  in 
the  silence  of  that  sheltered  corner  of  the  night  they 
seemed  to  merge  into  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

*  Au  revoir. 
127 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

The  succeeding  day  was  a  most  brilliant  one.  The 
storm  had  left  no  traces  this  time,  save  a  clean-washed 
sky  of  delicate  blue,  arching  cloudless  from  horizon  to 
horizon  like  an  inverted  bowl  of  precious  enamel,  and  a 
few  additional  pieces  of  drift-wood  on  the  beach,  with 
here  and  there  a  long,  thorny  branch  torn  from  the  big 
blackberry  bushes  clustering  on  the  ledge  of  the  lande. 

Rouanez  had  not  brought  many  horses  with  her  to 
Rozkavel,  but  she  rarely  left  England  without  her  favor 
ite  hunter,  Sacripant,  a  golden  bay  that  had  carried  her 
cross  country  for  two  years  now,  and  who  had  been  raised 
on  the  Clanvowe  stud-farm.  She  was  riding  him  that 
afternoon,  and  they  made  a  pretty  picture,  as,  preceded 
and  followed  alternately  by  the  two  dogs,  they  galloped 
across  the  firm  grass -bound  sand  behind  the  dunes. 
Sailors  are  proverbially  bad  horsemen,  but  proverbially 
only,  for  there  are  many  exceptions  to  the  rule,  Olier 
being  one  of  those,  and  Rouanez  another,  who,  when  not 
at  sea,  practically  lived  in  the  saddle — a  saddle,  in  her  case, 
by  the  way,  as  light  and  unobtrusive  as  the  best  maker 
of  Vienna  could  fashion  from  special  materials,  for  she 
disliked  being  separated  from  her  horse  by  double  thick 
nesses  of  leather  and  padding,  even  more  than  holding 
him  in  with  a  bit,  or  even  a  pelham.  The  mere  snaffle 
was  always  effective  enough  in  her  persuasive,  coaxing 
little  hands.  To-day  she  spoke  twice  to  Sacripant  in  the 
tone  she  adopted  when  he  was  expected  to  put  his  best 
foot  forward,  and,  when  in  a  fit  of  mischievous  gayety 
the  young  thoroughbred  shied  at  a  fluttering  net  hung  up 
to  dry  over  a  hedge,  she  stretched  forward  and  slapped 
him,  half  warningly,  half  tenderly,  on  the  side  of  the 
head,  without — thanks  to  her  suppleness — checking  his 
pace  by  the  least  weight  upon  the  reins. 

The  farm  of  Kerhardec,  whither  she  and  Olier  were 

128 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

bound,  was  a  good  distance  off,  in  a  green,  fertile  nook 
sheltering  under  the  rock  walls  of  a  gorge,  where  a  tiny 
river — scarce  deserving  so  ambitious  a  name — ran  down 
to  meet  the  sea.  The  Kerhardecs  had  once  owned 
thousands  of  acres;  in  fact,  the  entire  coulee  of  arable 
land  that  extends  as  far  back  as  the  village  of  Houlik,  six 
or  seven  miles  up  country ;  but  since  the  Revolution  their 
property  had  steadily  dwindled,  until  to-day,  even  count 
ing  a  tract  of  salt  marshes  to  the  west  of  the  farm,  it 
barely  sufficed  to  nourish  the  last  remaining  representa 
tives  of  that  still  influential  family  of  provincial  noblesse 
— comprising  K6ben,  his  little  boy,  and  his  grandmother, 
Dame  Isilt,  a  typical  old  Royalist  whom  time  had  left 
unchanged  in  opinions  and  vigorous  in  body.  Little  re 
mained  of  the  ancient  manoir.  One  peaked-roof  tower 
was  still  intact,  and  on  each  side  of  it  a  solidly  built,  blue- 
slated  wing  extended  across  a  quaint,  high-walled  garden, 
where  the  flowers  of  other  days  bloomed  nearly  all  the 
year  round.  Rouanez  was  eager  to  renew  her  acquaint 
ance  with  the  splendid  old  Chouan  widow  whom  she  re 
membered  so  well,  and  once  more  she  chirruped  to  Sacri- 
pant,  who  profited  by  the  permission  to  break  joyfully 
into  his  hunting  gallop. 

Seated  on  the  Calvary  steps  at  the  cross-roads  of  Tre- 
maza,  Olier  had  thrown  his  horse's  reins  down,  in  token 
that,  if  the  sagacious  and  faithful  animal  so  willed  it,  the 
short  grass  mixed  with  wild  thyme  and  delicately  frosted 
with  salt  was  his  to  crop.  Above  him  the  huge  granite 
Crucifixion  rose  in  tier  after  tier  of  primitively  carved  lit 
tle  shapes  of  saints,  angels,  and  archangels,  framing  the 
great  central  Figure  on  the  Cross — all  of  the  soft,  uniform 
gray  of  granite,  time-toned  and  melting  into  exquisitely 
faint  shadows  of  scarcely  deeper  velvetiness  in  the  slant 
ing  mellowness  of  the  afternoon  sun.  A  few  months  be- 
9  129 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

fore  a  fierce  struggle  had  taken  place  there,  when  the 
assembled  gars  of  ten  parishes  had  successfully  defended 
the  Calvary  against  the  gendarmes  of  the  Republic,  bent 
upon  overthrowing  this  monument  of  the  dead  ages,  and 
one  corner  of  the  massive  entablature  was  newly  broken, 
the  ragged  tear  of  the  weather-worn  coat  showing  the 
fresher  tint  of  the  inner  stone.  Olier  himself  had  been  far 
away  on  his  cruiser  then,  but  the  newspaper  reports  of 
that  fight  had  thrown  him  into  one  of  his  rare  fits  of 
anger,  and  he  had  not  forgotten.  Indeed,  he  was  think 
ing  bitterly  of  it  now,  his  eyes  fixed  on  three  or  four  tiny 
patches  of  brown  lichen  on  the  step  where  his  feet  rested, 
that  looked  really  like  dried  blood;  and  so  absorbed  was 
he  that  he  did  not  hear  the  muffled  thunder  of  Sacripant's 
lightly  shod  hoofs  until  Rouanez's  clear  voice  roused  him 
from  his  brooding. 

" H6,  Olier!  Are  you  asleep  ?"  she  called  out.  "  C'Haro 
is  treading  on  his  reins." 

Olier,  a  little  dazed  still,  ran  to  his  horse,  and,  read 
justing  the  bridle,  mounted.  "I  am  incorrigible,"  he 
said,  shamefacedly,  joining  her,  cap  in  hand.  "But  this 
spot  is  full  of  haunting  ghosts." 

"We're  going  to  lay  those  ghosts,  once  and  for  all," 
she  interrupted,  with  a  suddenly  hardening  face.  "Come, 
Olier,  we  are  late,  and  it's  still  quite  a  distance  off." 

He  glanced  toward  her,  and  for  a  long  moment  con 
tinued  to  look  at  the  graceful  figure,  in  its  tight-fitting, 
pale-gray  habit  made  in  one  piece,  and  the  small,  silver- 
crowned  head  with  its  pale-gray  straw  sailor  hat — almost 
the  exact  nuance  of  those  shining  tresses  —  pushed  off 
from  her  forehead  at  a  singularly  becoming  angle.  She 
was  an  artist  in  small  as  in  big  things,  and  instinctively 
attended  to  the  merest  details  of  attire  with  a  security 
of  touch  that  was  never  at  fault.  In  spite  of  present 

130 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

worries,  her  native  air  had  been  good  to  her,  for  never 
had  she  seemed  so  absurdly  young.  Indeed,  while  dress 
ing  for  her  ride,  suddenly  tempted  to  consult  what  she 
called  her  "cruelty  mirror" — a  large  looking-glass  set  pur 
posely  in  the  crudest  possible  light — she  had  smiled  at  her 
smiling  reflection.  Even  the  scarce  visible  crumpling  of 
the  delicate  skin  beneath  the  eyes,  like  that  of  an  apple- 
blossom  petal  twelve  hours  gathered,  which  had  some 
times  showed  there  when  she  was  very  tired,  had  now 
entirely  disappeared.  "I  have  no  vanity,"  she  had  once 
told  her  husband,  "but  still  I  will  hate  to  grow  old  and 
ugly,  because  it  is  such  a  humiliating  surrender."  To 
which  that  gentleman,  both  gallant  and  truthful — a  rare 
combination  —  had  replied:  "You  will  never  do  either; 
the  stuff  you  are  made  of  renders  both  impossible." 

Some  similar  idea  was  groping  about  in  Olier's  brain 
just  then  as  he  watched  her,  and  he  suddenly  said  aloud: 

"Astonishing!" 

"What's  astonishing?"  she  demanded,  turning  in  her 
saddle  and  narrowing  her  blue  gaze  questioningly. 

"Nothing!  A — a — a — passing  thought!"  he  hurriedly 
replied. 

"  I'd  take  care  of  myself  if  I  were  you.  Thinking  aloud 
is  the  first  sign  of  incipient  paralysis,  they  say,"  she 
mocked,  mischievously  crinkling  her  eyes  at  him. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  he  answered,  in  great  good-hu 
mor.  "And  here  we  are  in  sight  of  the  Farm — before 
worse  prognostications  follow,  I  am  thankful  to  say." 

"You  don't  like  to  hear  disagreeable  truths,"  she  cried, 
reining  in  Sacripant  to  let  him  precede  her  down  the  side 
path  to  Kerhardec.  "That's  proof  of  a  selfish  and  arbi 
trary  disposition.  But,  dear  me,  what  extraordinary  pink 
lilies!"  she  delightedly  concluded,  hardly  able  to  resist  the 
temptation  to  dismount  and  appropriate  them  at  once. 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Diademes  de  la  Reine,"  he  called  back  over  his  shoul 
der,  still  pounding  ahead  on  the  soft  moss  of  the  sentier. 
"Don't  you  remember  them?  They  are  the  pride  of 
Kerhardec." 

"Diademes  de  la  Reine!"  she  mused,  flushing  like  the 
flowers  themselves  with  pleasurable  reminiscence.  How 
often  she  had  driven  away  from  here  with  her  father, 
carrying  home  a  fragrant  lapful  of  those  glorious  blooms, 
with  satiny  pink  petals  curling  back  in  palest  blush-rose 
from  the  haughty  gold-tipped  aigrette  within.  But  this 
was  no  time  for  poetical  fancies,  past  or  present,  since 
they  were  already  at  the  arched  stone  doorway  of  the 
Farm,  and  K6ben  de  Kerhardec  himself  was  standing  there 
to  greet  them,  his  gigantic  height  almost  blocking  the  nar 
row  entrance.  Red-haired  and  blue-eyed,  as  all  the  Ker- 
hardecs  had  been  before  him,  with  the  rather  long  features 
and  peculiar  gauntness  of  his  race,  he  carried  his  pedigree 
on  his  severe  face,  just  now,  however,  lighted  by  a  brill 
iant  smile  of  welcome. 

"Grandmaman  will  be  so  glad,"  he  said,  using  the  sim 
ple,  childish  appellation  as  they  do  there.  "Come  in 
quickly,"  and  he  made  way  for  Rouanez.  "Go  with  her, 
Olier,"  he  added,  stepping  down  to  where  his  friend  stood 
holding  both  horses.  "I'll  attend  to  those  till  old  Tord 
makes  up  his  mind  to  appear.  He  must  be  getting  deaf, 
for  I  whistled  for  him  as  soon  as  I  heard  you  turn  off  the 
road." 

"You'd  never  find  your  way,"  he  explained  to  Rouanez, 
standing  within  the  dusky  porch,  "without  Olier;  he 
knows  the  labyrinth."  And  a  labyrinth  of  corridors  it 
was,  indeed,  winding  to  this  side  and  to  that,  with  only 
here  and  there  a  loophole  of  a  window,  heavily  glazed 
and  leaded  as  was  customary  generations  ago.  But  at 
last  from  the  half-light  of  this  stone-walled  maze  they 

132 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

suddenly  emerged  into  a  wide,  sunny  room,  opening  upon 
the  garden  on  the  other  side  of  the  house  by  a  row  of  long 
French  windows.  A  room  uncarpeted,  and  draped  only 
with  pink-and-green  chintz  that  time  had  dulled  to  the 
softness  of  old  brocade,  and  furnished  somewhat  scantily, 
but  with  massive  bahuts,  chairs,  and  tables  that  would 
have  made  the  fortune  of  an  antiquarian ;  and  the  whole 
apartment  so  daintily  clean  and  airy  and  sunny  that 
merely  to  enter  it  was  to  feel  refreshed  and  invigora 
ted. 

Sitting  within  one  of  the  wide-open  windows,  beside 
her  spinning-wheel,  was  a  slender,  black -clad  woman, 
straight  as  a  lance,  busily  drawing  flax  from  the  snugly 
loaded  distaff  through  her  thin  fingers.  Her  back  was 
toward  them,  and  the  click  of  Olier's  spurs  made  her 
turn  round  with  the  alertness  of  a  girl. 

"Ke'ben  told  us  to  come  and  find  you,  Madame  Isilt," 
he  said,  advancing  a  little  ahead  of  Rouanez  toward  the 
mistress  of  Kerhardec  Farm  who,  rising,  took  two  steps 
toward  her  guests,  then  stopped  and  bent  her  tall  figure 
in  a  curtsey  that  would  not  have  been  out  of  place  in  a 
throne-room. 

"I  am  glad  to  welcome  you,"  she  said,  without  offering 
to  shake  hands,  but  with  real  welcome  in  her  deep,  musi 
cal  voice.  "It  is  an  honor  for  Kerharde'c  to  receive  the 
last  of  the  Rozkavels." 

Rouanez  had  curtseyed  as  low,  if  a  little  less  stiffly 
than  the  stately  old  woman,  and  now  accepted  the  prof 
fered  chair  near  the  spinning-wheel.  "Surely,"  she  was 
thinking,  "nowhere  else  in  the  world  could  one  find  such 
simple  dignity."  And  her  eyes  rested  admiringly  upon 
the  cameo-like  features,  the  proud  eyes,  and  the  masses 
of  smooth,  banded  hair,  creamy  white  (as  hair  that  once 
was  brilliant  red-blond  is  wont  to  bleach),  graced  by  the 

133 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

daintiest  of  tiny  lace  coiffes*  on  its  foundation  of  golden 
tissue.  It  was  a  beauty  that  seemed  part  and  parcel  of 
the  place,  like  the  sunlight  in  warm  squares  upon  the 
dark,  polished  floor,  and  the  musical  cooings  from  the 
stone  terrace  ledge  outside,  where  a  flock  of  pigeons  were 
fluttering  and  preening,  amid  the  trailing  branches  of  a 
far-spreading  Marshal  Niel  rose  now  just  bursting  into 
bloom. 

"What  an  exquisite  home  you  have!"  Lady  Clanvowe 
could  not  help  saying.  "One  could  never  feel  dull  or 
unhappy  in  such  surroundings." 

"Dull,  no,"  Dame  Isilt  quietly  replied.  "Dulness  and 
ennui  are  modern  inventions — bad  ones,  too,  like  the  rest." 

Her  son,  who  had  just  entered,  laughed  a  little  as  he 
leaned  on  the  high,  straight  back  of  her  seat.  "Grand- 
mere^  ferociously  old-fashioned,"  he  remarked,  glancing 
at  Rouanez  over  the  soft,  ivory-tinted  lace  of  his  grand 
mother's  pretty  head-dress. 

"She  is  right  to  be  so,"  Rouanez  retorted.  "I  for  one 
entirely  agree  with  her  ideas." 

A  flush  of  pleasure  rose  to  Dame  Isilt's  scarcely  wrinkled 
face.  "It  does  one  good  to  hear  young  people  speak  like 
that,"  she  approved,  looking  sympathetically  at  her  visitor. 

Rouanez  gave  a  short  laugh.  " Oh,  Madame  Isilt!"  she 
cried.  ;<  Young'  is  excessive  when  you  speak  of  me." 

"I  think  not.  I  am  seventy-two,  and  I  do  not  feel 
old — not  old  at  all,"  she  insisted;  adding,  in  a  suddenly 
rasping  tone:  "Not  old  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  despair  of 
seeing  the  old  days  and  the  old  faiths  brought  back  again 
before  I  call  myself  that." 

*  Many  women  of  the  impoverished  "  petite  noblesse  "  in  Brit 
tany  pride  themselves  on  wearing  an  idealized  coiffe  (while  re 
jecting  the  rest  of  the  costume)  as  a  sign  that  they  identify 
themselves  with  the  life  of  the  peasant  which  has  become  theirs. 

134 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Her  three  listeners  said  nothing,  and,  letting  her  un- 
dimmed  blue  eyes  wander  toward  the  irised  wings  of  her 
feathered  pets  fluttering  about  the  open  window,  Dame 
Isilt  went  on  in  sonorous  Gaelic,  with  the  air  of  one  build 
ing  up  the  fragments  of  dormant  memories: 

"I  have  seen  much  in  my  time,  fighting  and  peace, 
dearth  and  plenty,  great  hopes  broken  and  deep  sorrows 
healed."  She  turned  for  a  second  to  Rouanez,  then  gazed 
once  more  away  from  her,  as  if  seeking  the  ghostly  sil 
houettes  of  the  past  in  the  depths  of  the  great  trees  that 
had  been  full-grown  when  she  herself  was  a  little  child. 
"But  never,  never,  did  I  witness  such  horrors  as  at  pres 
ent.  You  have  come,  Olier  de  Frehel,  I  doubt  not,  to 
talk  in  confidence  with  my  son  Keben.  You  can  say  your 
say  here  before  me,  and  before  the  Rozkavel  who  has  come 
from  so  far  to  break  the  spell  at  last,  and  to  awaken  young 
Bretons  like  yourselves  from  your  sleep  of  inactivity." 
She  swung  round,  her  eyes  alight  with  enthusiasm,  her 
slim,  tall  frame  trembling,  her  beautifully  shaped,  toil- 
worn  hands  extended.  "The  Saints  be  praised  and 
blessed  for  her  coming,  since  it  has  put  an  end  to  your 
shameful  acquiescence  and  dothfulness.  Oh!  shame, 
shame  indeed,  upon  you  whose  blood  is  that  of  Chou- 
ans,  of  true  Royalists  and  Catholics,  for  having  let  your 
churches  be  desecrated,  your  priests  driven  away,  and  your 
kings  reviled  and  mocked !  Shame !  Shame !  Shame ! ' ' 

"Mother!"  Keben  cried.  "Mother,  recollect  yourself. 
Don't  speak  like  that." 

"Silence!"  she  commanded,  shaking  off  his  deprecating 
hand.  "You  have  deserved  to  hear  this,  and  if  it  hurts 
you,  all  the  better.  Do  you  fancy  that  if  our  gars  had 
found  fifty  men  like  you  and  the  Frehel  here  to  lead  them, 
they  would  have  been  beaten  and  clubbed  into  sub 
mission  by  those  unspeakable  ruffians  who  came  to  de- 

'35 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

stroy  their  altars?  Ah!  If  I  had  not  been  a  woman  I 
would  have  known  how  to  rekindle  the  sparks  in  every 
heart,  in  every  soul,  from  one  end  of  Brittany  and  Vendee 
to  the  other;  and  that  once  done  the  rest  would  have  fol 
lowed!  Normandy  and  Picardy  are  not  quite  gangrened 
yet!  Think  you  that  there  our  example  would  not  have 
told?  But  no;  you  who  are  men,  strong  and  hale,  and 
fitted  for  the  task,  have  shunned  it.  Twenty  times  the 
hour  came  when  success  would  have  been  easy;  twenty 
times  you  let  it  pass  by;  and  now  you  would  have  me 
recollect  myself  and  mince  my  words!  You  will  hear 
me,  I  tell  you,  and  hear  me  to  the  end — for,  indeed,  if  a 
crime  lies  at  my  door  it  is  to  have  forborne  so  long!" 

She  was  pale  now  to  the  lips,  and  those  three  who 
heard  were  as  white  as  she;  for  there  was  something  ter 
rible  in  the  fiery  denunciation  that  held  both  men  silent, 
while  Rouanez,  too  stirred  to  interfere,  stared  in  dumb 
astonishment. 

"And  now,"  she  concluded — "now  that  once  again  the 
dial  points  the  hour  of  action,  rise  up  all  of  you,  never 
to  sit  down  again  till  you  have  shouldered  your  way  to 
triumph !  Give  no  quarter  and  take  none ;  and  especially 
never  yield  nor  falter  on  any  single  point  of  Faith  and 
Creed!" 

Here  Rouanez  at  last  roused  herself.  The  spell  of  the 
old  Druidess's  grand  presence  and  wild  inspiration  was 
broken. 

"Might  you  not  have  considered,  Dame  Isilt,  before 
you  denounced  them  so  bitterly,  that  the  fault  was  not 
theirs?"  she  said.  "Can  one  carry  out  an  insurrection 
successfully  without  funds?  Who  was  to  arm  the  gars? 
Could  Olier  have  done  it?  Could  K^ben,  or  the  other 
sons  of  dead  Chouans,  whose  hearts  are  as  stout  as  their 
purses  are  empty?  Where  is  the  use  of  recrimination 

136 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

when  there  was  no  sin  ?  Why,  even  the  united  fortunes 
of  the  de  Tremoers  would  have  been  but  a  drop  in  the 
bucket,  and  you  speak  of  inertia,  Dame  Isilt,  of  acquies 
cence  and  slothfulness  ?  Look  at  Olier  here,  who  has  left 
the  sea  and  sacrificed  his  career  without  a  murmur. 
Ke"ben,  too,  has  borne  much,  and  is  ready  enough,  now 
he  has  the  chance!  God  knows  they  have  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of!" 

There  was  indignation  in  her  tone,  and  Dame  Isilt 
glanced  across  at  her  with  flashing  eyes. 

"I  don't  see  .  .  ."  she  began,  angrily;  and  then  abrupt 
ly  broke  off.  "Yes,  I  do,"  she  resumed,  in  an  altered 
voice.  "I  do  see,  after  all.  There  is  much  in  what  you 
say,  Rouanez  de  Rozkavel,  much  that  never  occurred  to 
me,  and  I  fear  I  have  been  unjustly  harsh  perhaps." 

Ke"ben  gave  her  a  look  of  extreme  surprise,  for  he 
had  never  heard  his  haughty  grandmother  acknowledge 
herself  in  the  wrong. 

"Your  views  were  excusable,"  Rouanez  admitted,  but 
without  a  trace  of  gratification  or  friendliness.  It  seemed 
evident  that  even  this  partial  dipping  of  colors  did  not 
efface  in  her  opinion  the  rank  injustice  done  to  Olier  and 
Kdben.  "Our  present  undertaking  is — well — I  am  not 
blind  to  its  difficulties,  and  that's  expressing  myself  mild 
ly;  but  we  are  going  to  do  our  best;  so  it's  useless  to 
harp  upon  that  chord.  On  the  other  hand,  it  is  on  the 
cards  that  it  may  be  already  too  late  to  accomplish  what 
we  desire,  because,  speaking  generally,  the  present  gen 
eration  lacks  enthusiasm,  feu  sacre,  and  backbone." 

"  The  Royalist  spirit  exists  to-day  as  it  did  sixty  years 
ago,"  Dame  Isilt  stubbornly  protested — "  here  in  Brittany, 
at  least." 

Rouanez  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  still  exists,  but 
not  as  it  did  sixty  years  ago,"  she  coolly  stated.  "The 

'37 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

fibre  has  relaxed.  Of  course,  there  are  some  who  ..." 
she  smiled  suddenly,  ..."  who  show  fidelity,  as,  for  in 
stance,  Hidrik  Brok,  the  blacksmith  of  Kremarze,  who, 
after  a  good  many  bowls  of  cider,  told  me  the  other  day 
with  tears  in  his  voice  that  he  didn't  stomach  the  state 
of  affairs  now;  what  he  wanted  was  a  real  king,  'not  a  ... 
a  ...  cardboard  one  .  .  .  curse  it  ...  but  a  live  King  .  .  . 
like  that  little  King  of  Spain,  who  .  .  .  hasn't  caught  cold 
in  his  eyes  .  .  .  and  isn't  afraid  of  anybody  dead  or 
alive.  Why?'  he  hiccoughed,  'did  not  that  same  King  of 
Spain  come  and  help  Brittany  out  of  the  mess?  He  was 
rightful  King  of  France,  was  he  not  ?  and  he  had  a  little 
boy  to  succeed  him,  at  least  —  all  the  same  family  as 
Henry  V.,  who  had  none — never;  and  why  didn't  that 
fier  gar  con  step  across  his  frontier,  damn  it  all !  to  get 
busy  and  make  things  buzz.  Wasn't  he  a  Bourb  .  .  . 
Bourb  .  .  .  Bourb  .  .  .  ?'  Here  his  tongue  gave  out,  and 
I  finished  the  word  for  him,  adding  some  timely  ad 
vice,  in  the  middle  of  which  he  rolled  over  into  the 
ditch  —  to  listen  more  comfortably,  no  doubt  —  and  went 
fast  asleep,  tears  of  distress  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 
That  may  be  a  proper  survival  of  Legitimistic  feeling, 
but  as  for  me  I  would  prefer  to  find  it  less  spiritu 
ous." 

Even  Dame  Isilt  had  unbent  during  this  recital,  and 
the  two  men  were  laughing. 

"  Your  blacksmith  is  an  extreme  case,  Olier,  of  course," 
Rouanez  continued,  "but  there  are  many  like  him,  even 
here  in  loyal  old  Brittany,  to  whom  a  monarchy  means 
simply  increased  prosperity,  and  who  wholly  lose  sight 
of  the  loftier  idea  that  animated  their  forefathers.  Still, 
even  this  belief  can  be  made  use  of,  and  in  the  mean  while 
we  happily  have  the  true  ones  to  lean  upon." 

"  I  cannot  understand  why  you  are  ready  to  risk  your 

138 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

skin  and  your  money,  if  that's  all  the  faith  you  have  in 
final  success,"  Dame  Isilt  said,  dryly. 

"One  has  always  faith  enough  to  risk  that  much," 
was  the  quiet  reply.  "  What  I  regret  far  more  to  hazard 
are  the  lives  of  the  people  under  our  orders — of  those  who, 
as  somebody  I  know  expresses  it,  would  follow  us  through 
hell  and  out  again  at  a  word  of  command." 

"  I  have  here,"  the  old  woman  hastened  to  put  in,  wav 
ing  off  with  one  impatient  gesture  such  trivialities  as 
wholesale  bloodshed  in  a  great  cause,  "a  list  of  all  the 
chiefs  you  have  not  yet  seen — the  braves  who — " 

"  One  might  almost  fancy  one  was  listening  to  Fenimore 
Cooper,"  Rouanez  thought,  while  her  grim  vis-a-vis  un 
folded  a  yard-long  strip  of  paper. 

"You  will  find  here  a  resume"  of  what  remains  of  the 
Armorial  de  Bretagne,"  she  proudly  explained:  "de  Tre- 
moer,  de  Lannilis,  de  Kerdren — " 

"I  know,"  Rouanez  interrupted;  "I  have  the  same." 

"Who  made  it  out  for  you?" 

"I  did  it  myself." 

Dame  Isilt  and  Ke'be'n  stared  at  her  in  surprise.  Not 
so  Olier,  who  had  long  since  ceased  to  wonder  at  her 
methods. 

"You  came  here  to  Brittany  prepared,  then,  on  pur 
pose  to  help  us?"  Ke'ben  exclaimed. 

"  Not  in  the  least.  But  there's  been  plenty  of  time 
since  my  arrival.  I  had  enough  besides  to  convince  my 
self  that  the  greatest  possible  prudence  is  necessary.  I 
am  here  to-day  because  nothing  can  be  more  natural  than 
for  me  to  come  and  pay  my  respects  to  Madame  de  Ker- 
hardec,  and  to  visit  this  beautiful  old  manoir — most  in 
teresting  for  a  foreigner — but  neither  Olier  nor  myself  shall 
under  any  circumstances  come  again — openly,  at  least." 

"You  think  you  are  suspected?" 

139 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"  No,  not  that,  but  I  more  than  think — I  know — that 
there  are  some  .  .  .  not  imbeciles  either,  but  very  shrewd 
and  cunning  persons,  who  are  always  on  the  alert,  and 
who  .  .  ." 

"Bah!"  Dame  Isilt  sneered;  "those  common  louts  of 
Gouvernementaux. ' ' 

Rouanez  glanced  up  at  her.  "Common  louts  if  you 
like,  but  nevertheless  clever  enough  to  have  landed  you 
where  you  are,  and  brought  to  their  way  of  thinking  a 
great  part  of  France.  It  is  always  best  not  to  under 
value  one's  enemies." 

"  You  estimate  yours  so  highly  that  you  seem  inclined 
to  award  them  the  victory,  sans  coup  ferir,"  the  old  woman 
scornfully  exclaimed. 

Rouanez  flushed  slightly.  She  was  not  accustomed  to 
such  a  tone,  and  the  age  and  inferior  rank  of  Dame  Isilt 
alone  saved  her  from  a  very  lively  retort.  She  was  rising 
with  the  intention  of  leaving  the  business  of  the  day  in 
the  hands  of  Olier  by  asking  to  go  and  see  the  gardens, 
when  there  was  a  patter  of  little  running  feet  on  the 
terrace,  the  pigeons  whirled  upward  in  a  great  tinted 
cloud,  and  a  small  boy,  still  wearing  the  long,  blue  apron 
of  Breton  babyhood,  tumbled  in  at  the  window  and  cast 
himself,  laughing  gleefully,  across  Keren's  legs. 

"Oh,  Mdbik!"1  the  young  man  exclaimed,  reproach 
fully.  But  Rouanez  had  already  crossed  over  and  was 
bending  toward  the  child. 

"What  a  delicious  little  fellow!"  she  murmured,  gazing 
at  the  round,  sunburned  face,  the  glorious  tangle  of  red- 
gold  curls,  and  the  roguish  blue  eyes  peeping  through  their 
long,  curving,  brown  lashes  with  unconscious  challenge. 

"A  bad,  disobedient  boy,"  Ke"ben  scolded,  but  with 

1  Little  son. 
140 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

such  a  caress  in  his  deep  voice  that  " Mdbik"  once  more 
began  to  laugh. 

"Is — is  he  yours?"  Rouanez  asked. 

"  Yes,"  Dame  Isilt  answered  for  him.  "  He  is  Kdben's 
son.  A  good  little  man  usually,  although,"  she  added,  with 
characteristic  rancor,  "  he  cost  his  sweet  young  mother  her 
life." 

She  had  adored  her  granddaughter-in-law,  and  never 
had  been  able  quite  to  forgive  little  Ineo  for  having  caused 
this  bitter  loss.  Rouanez,  now  on  her  knees  beside  the 
baby,  frowned  slightly.  Dame  Isilt  certainly  carried 
things  rather  too  far  in  one  way  and  another,  and  person 
ally  she,  Rouanez,  would  find  it  no  hardship  to  forego 
the  pleasure  of  further  visits.  She  had  never  had  a  child, 
and  her  eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears  as  Ineo,  fascinated 
by  the  pretty  lady's  sweet  face,  spontaneously  held  out 
his  arms  to  her  and  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  out  on 
the  terrace,  while  Olier,  noticing  her  unusual  emotion, 
hurriedly  launched  himself  into  a  discussion  with  Dame 
Isilt,  so  as  to  prevent  her  from  following  them.  In  a 
minute  the  three  within  the  room  were  deep  in  their  cam 
paign  plans,  but  Rouanez  remained  away,  and  returned 
only  when  it  was  time  to  go. 

"  Olier,"  she  said,  after  a  long  silence,  as  they  dropped 
behind  the  rise  of  moorland  that  hid  the  Farm  from  view, 
"  if  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  son  I  think  I  would 
fight  shy  of  insurrections."  She  bent  to  rearrange  the 
huge  sheaf  of  Kerharde'c  lilies  fastened  to  her  saddle, 
and  in  a  dreamy  voice,  quite  unlike  her  usual  crisp,  clear 
tones,  repeated:  "Oh,  yes,  I  would  fight  shy  of  every 
thing  likely  to  separate  me  from  him." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Breton,  I  sing  those  wandering  prows  to  you 
For  whom  no  harbor  lighteth  on  the  lee, 

High-piled  Armadas  of  th'  unfathomed  blue, 
The  crowding  galleons  of  a  shoreless  sea. 

How  oft  with  them  my  nomad  thoughts  would  pine 
To  cleave  the  unvexed  levels  of  the  sky, 

Such  flights  illimitable  and  divine 

As  haply  we  may  follow  when  we  die! 

Silvered  or  dark,  as  sun  or  storm  decree, 
Nightly,  unheeding  of  the  Shining  Seven, 

Squadrons  of  God,  they  ride  eternally 

The  sweeping  tide-rift  of  the  open  heaven. 

The  ancient  stars  their  lanterns  be,  that  swing 
Glimmering  aloft  until  the  dawnlight  pales, 

Voices  and  mystic  murmurs  faintly  wing 

From  the  deep  shadows  of  their  towering  sails. 
La  Chanson  de  la  Bretagne. 

IN  the  billiard-room  at  Kremarze,  Olier,  sitting  cross- 
legged  on  the  massive  corner  of  the  green-cloth-covered 
table,  was  talking  to  Arzur  de  Tremoer,  his  life-long  com 
rade  and  still  his  best  friend,  despite  that  slight  difference 
of  age  which  in  the  early  twenties  may  draw  so  sharp  a 
line  between  the  boy  and  the  man.  Anyhow,  Arzur's 
height  and  breadth  made  him  look  older  than  his  twenty 
years,  and  the  past  weeks  had  very  considerably  altered 
the  boyishness  of  his  dark,  handsome  features.  Just  now 
his  brown  eyes  were  showing  the  curious  green  high- 

142 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

lights  that  excitement  always  brought  there,  and  as  he 
bent  enthusiastically  toward  Olier — 

"Splendid!"  he  exclaimed.  "Splendid!  My  father 
thinks  she  is  the  most  wonderful  creature  in  existence, 
and  as  usual  that  old  gentleman  is  dead  right.  Fancy  a 
woman  building  up  a  plan  like  that!" 

"  She  is  so  little  of  a  woman,"  Olier  interposed,  tossing 
the  end  of  his  cigarette  out  of  the  window  with  a  jerk. 

"Upon  my  word,  I  honestly  believe  that  you  have 
brought  yourself  to  the  point  of  looking  upon  her  merely 
as  your  commanding  officer,"  Arzur  said,  impatiently. 
"  I  am,  I  must  confess,  not  quite  so  blind  to  her  extraor 
dinary  charm." 

Olier  offering  no  comment,  he  continued:  "I  wish  to 
God  there  was  another  woman  like  her  in  the  world.  You 
would  then  see  your  humble  servant  recant  and  turn  his 
thoughts  to  matrimony." 

Olier  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  wish  you  would  stop 
talking  nonsense,  Arzur!"  he  said,  irritably.  "  It  is  scarce 
ly  respectful  of  you  to  make  Lady  Clanvowe  a  subject  for 
pleasantry." 

"Pleasantry!"  the  lad  cried,  indignantly.  "I'm  not 
joking,  I  assure  you,  my  sage  mentor.  Just  let  her  hus 
band  be  bowled  over  by  the  Afghans,  or  whatever  you 
call  'em,  and  see  whether  I  am  in  earnest  or  not." 

An  angry  flush  rose  to  Olier's  face.  "I  am  afraid,"  he 
remarked,  cuttingly,  "that  your  father  has  made  a  mis 
take  in  judging  you  grown-up  enough  to  take  so  impor 
tant  a  part  in  our  affairs.  You  are  acting  like  a  school 
boy." 

Never  had  those  two  come  so  near  quarrelling,  and 
Arzur  walked  the  length  of  the  room  before  trusting  him 
self  to  reply.  What  had  come  to  Olier?  he  wondered. 
Were  the  cares  of  a  conspirator  weighing  too  heavily  upon 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

him  ? — or  else  .  .  .  He  paused  half-way  back,  planted  him 
self  before  a  mirror,  and,  after  a  critical  examination, 
called  out  in  a  manner  not  exactly  forced,  but  sufficient 
ly  jovial  to  have  cost  him  something. 

"When  a  man  has  got  such  a  conquering  little  pair  of 
whiskers  as  mine,  he  scorns  being  teased  about  his  youth- 
fulness." 

Olier,  however,  was  already  feeling  foolish. 

"You'd  be  twice  the  man  you  are  now  if  you'd  only 
cut  those  beastly  little  rabbit's-feet!"  he  replied,  laughing. 

"Rabbit's-feet!  My  exquisitely  mown  favor  is  d1  or  don- 
nance!"  Arzur  grumbled.  "Why,  they  give  me  the  ap 
pearance  of  a  seasoned  sea-dog." 

"Seasoned  noodle!  But  come  —  enough  time  wasted; 
we  have  still  important  work  to  do  to-night." 

Instantly  Arzur  dropped  his  banter  and  advanced  sober 
as  a  judge.  "All  right,"  he  said,  "I  await  your  further 
orders." 

"They  won't  be  difficult — so  far  as  this  evening  goes, 
at  any  rate — and  they  won't  be  mine,  either.  We  are 
going  out  to  get  them  now." 

"We  are  going  out,  are  we?" 

"  But,  of  course,  you  don't  imagine  that  we  can  afford 
to  assemble  in  plain  sight  of  everybody  ?  Of  course,  when 
I  say  in  plain  sight,"  he  added,  glancing  out  at  the  moon 
lit  loneliness  of  the  park  and  vast,  somewhat  neglected 
gardens,  "I  mean  above  ground." 

"A  meeting  underground  is  exactly  what  we  lacked  to 
make  the  thing  complete,"  Arzur  declared,  with  amazing 
gravity.  "  I  had  not  dared  to  hope  that  we  could  indulge 
in  such  proper  atmospheres." 

"We  can,  and,  what's  more,  we  must;  which,  as  Lady 
Clanvowe  says,  supplies  a  touch  of  fun  that  we  need  bad 
ly.  I  do,  at  any  rate.  For  one  thing,  I  am  not  quite 

144 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

happy  about  that  man  Graf  ton.  He  watches  her  al 
together  too  closely  for  my  peace  of  mind." 

"Who's  going  to  bring  her  to-night?"  Arzur  asked. 

"She'll  bring  herself,"  Olier  answered,  pulling  out  his 
watch  and  pressing  back  the  lid,  "but  not  before  one 
o'clock,  and  this  leaves  us  a  little  over  an  hour  to  reach 
the  rendezvous  ourselves.  It  isn't  a  bit  too  much,  for 
we  must  avoid  the  high-road." 

"Let's  start,  then;  the  shore  path  is  twice  as  far." 

"Not  so  fast,  my  lad.  Listen  to  what  I'm  going  to 
tell  you.  My  people  here  are  as  loyal  as  loyal  can  be; 
but,  nevertheless,  I  do  not  propose  that  they  shall  know 
what  we  are  about  until  every  single  detail  has  been 
finally  adjusted.  So  you  will  kindly  go  to  your  room 
now,  undress;  and  get  into  bed." 

"What  for?" 

"Because  merely  to  pretend  won't  do.  It's  not  at  all 
the  same  thing.  As  soon  as  you  have  done  that,  ring  the 
bell  for  Pierrek,  and  give  him  minute  orders  about  your 
things  to  go  yachting  to-morrow  morning,  and  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later  get  up,  put  on  the  paludier  1  clothes  I 
showed  you  before  dinner,  and  wait  for  me." 

"Really,  Olier,  don't  you  think  that  such  precautions 
are  a  bit  overdone?"  Arzur  asked,  smiling. 

"  I  do  not.  We  are  playing  a  far  more  dangerous  game 
than  you  seem  to  realize.  Our  lives,  yours  and  mine, 
and  even  those  of  others,  are  of  small  consequence  if  you 
like,  but  there  is  .  .  ." 

"Hers?" 

"Yes,  hers,  and  if  we  do  not  try  to  guard  it  in  every 
possible  fashion,  she  will  not  do  so  for  herself,  you  may 
depend  on  that." 

1  Salt-marsh  worker. 

10  145 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

I 

The  lad  was  genuinely  serious  now.  "I'll  do  all  y 
say,  and  more  if  necessary,"  he  murmured,  in  so  chasten 
a  tone  that  Olier  felt  annoyed  with  himself  for  havi 
perhaps  uselessly  dampened  his  spirits,  but,  rememberi 
his  friend's  extreme  buoyancy,  he  did  not  attempt 
cheer  him  up. 

The  moon  had  disappeared  behind  a  bank  of  lig 
summer  clouds  when  the  two  young  men  let  themseh 
out  by  a  little  door  in  the  park  wall  and  struck  out 
the  direction  of  the  sea.     Anybody  meeting  them  wot 
have  taken  them  for  salt-workers  on  their  way  to  t 
marshes,  for  Olier  had  insisted  that  they  should  act 
to  the  disguise.     Even  their  walk  was  altered,  and, 
though  not  a  soul  was  in  sight,  they  dragged  their  f( 

Ias  men  do  who  have  just  been  roused  from  heavy  sle 
to  attend  an  unwelcome  task.  Their  soft,  broad-leav 
hats  were  pulled  down  over  their  eyes,  casting  their  fac 
into  deep  shadow,  and  when  once  or  twice  they  spoke, 
was  on  indifferent  topics,  and  in  rough  coast  Bretc 
since  it  was,  after  all,  possible  that  behind  the  piled- 
rocks  at  the  side  of  the  path  a  douanier,  if  nothi 
worse,  might  be  lurking  on  the  lookout  for  salt-thiev 
Indeed,  as  they  came  abreast  of  the  semaphore  towi 
ing  far  above  the  beach  on  a  gaunt  promontory, 
tall,  slender  mast  and  spidery  rope  ladder  profil 
against  the  silvered  sky  in  trim,  dark  lines,  a  man  cai 
close  to  the  edge  of  the  stone  platform  and  peer 
down. 

"Who's  that?"  Arzur  whispered. 

"Only  the  night  guardian  on  duty.     He  can't  recc 
nize  us  from  up  there  and  in  this  light,  even  if  he's  se 
us,"  Olier  whispered  back,  and  just  then  the  sound  of 
lively  ronde  tune,  thinned  by  distance,  floated  down 
them: 

146 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"On  lui  r'mett'ra  sa  Couronne 
De  plume  de  paille, 
De  plume  de  geai, 

On  lui  rendra  sa  Couronne 
De  plume  de  geai 
De  plume  de  ble!" 

"Sa  Couronne!  A  good  omen,"  Olier  murmured,  re 
pressing  a  laugh. 

"Only  his  won't  be  made  of  straw,  let's  hope,"  chuckled 
Arzur,  and  he  began  to  hum  between  his  teeth: 

"Sa  Couronne  de  plume  de  paille 
De  plume  de  ble, 
Sa  Couronne  de  plume  de  geai!" 

It  is  good  to  be  young,  and  to  see  the  funny  side  of 
things  sometimes,  especially  in  periods  of  storm  and 
stress. 

For  another  mile  they  skirted  the  foot  of  the  cliffs, 
until  they  came  to  where  a  succession  of  tall,  jagged  spurs, 
loopholed  here  and  there  by  natural  arches — a  rock  for 
mation  common  on  the  coast  heading  toward  the  Cap 
de  la  Chevre — cut  across  the  strip  of  shingle  to  advance 
boldly  far  into  the  sea.  This  is  perhaps  the  most  danger 
ous  spot  of  the  shore,  for,  although  at  low  tide  one  can 
walk  very  nearly  to  the  end  of  the  point,  the  flood  has 
a  sudden  knack  of  rushing  in  upon  it,  especially  in  cer 
tain  sets  of  the  wind,  that  has  proved  a  terrible  trap  for 
more  than  one  unwary  loiterer  upon  these  sands. 

The  moon  had  kept  appearing  and  disappearing  behind 
its  veil  of  clouds  during  their  whole  trip,  but  now,  swung 
low  in  a  clear  band  of  deep  blue,  it  brilliantly  illuminated 
the  bay,  leaving  in  deep  shadow  that  part  of  the  beach 
which  Olier  and  Arzur  had  reached,  and  where  the  two 
rock-walls,  of  cliff  and  spur,  converge  in  a  deep  embay- 

147 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

ment.  The  silence  was  complete,  for  the  sea  was  very 
quiet  and  seemed  asleep  far  out  there  beyond  the  weed- 
clad  reefs,  and  the  two  young  men  paused  to  listen. 

"It's  all  right!"  Olier  whispered,  presently.  "Come 
along;  here  is  the  place."  And  he  pointed  to  the  sheer 
face  of  the  precipice. 

"Where?"  questioned  the  other. 

"Here,  here!"  Olier  muttered,  impatiently,  and,  taking 
the  lead,  he  silently  began  to  climb  like  a  monkey,  with 
foot  and  hand,  up  the  almost  perpendicular  base  of  the 
falaise,  closely  followed  by  Arzur.  For  the  first  twenty 
feet  the  ascent  was  not  too  difficult  for  such  active  young 
fellows,  but  the  next  fifteen  proved  arduous  even  to 
them,  and  they  were  both  a  little  short  of  breath  when 
they  at  last  hoisted  themselves  into  the  arched  mouth  of 
a  crevice  slanting  sidewise  into  the  rock,  and  partially 
closed  by  a  sharp,  screen-like  projection. 

"  Ouf !  that  was  a  tough  job,"  Arzur  grumbled,  straight 
ening  himself  to  his  full  height.  "  I've  got  kinks  all  along 
my  spine!"  But  Olier  was  not  minded  to  listen,  and, 
feeling  his  way  with  one  hand,  preceded  him  along  a  nar 
row  passage  black  as  pitch. 

"Can't  we  light  the  lantern?"  Arzur  asked,  stumbling 
after  him  on  the  uneven  path. 

"Not  yet  .  .  .  s-s-s-st!"  came  from  Olier;  and  for  five 
minutes  more  they  advanced,  Arzur  stretching  both  arms 
in  front  of  him  to  avoid  bumping  against  some  sudden 
angle. 

"Halt!"  Olier  said  at  last,  and  Arzur  heard  him  fum 
bling  with  a  box  of  matches.  In  an  instant  the  little 
lantern  he  had  brought  in  his  pocket  was  lighted,  and 
Arzur,  looking  about  him,  found  that  they  were  standing 
in  the  center  of  a  small  cave  of  red  granite,  pierced  at  the 
upper  end  by  a  perfectly  round  hole. 

148 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Hurry  up!"  Olier  commanded,  diving  through  into 
another  winding  gut,  so  narrow  that  it  allowed  just  space 
enough  for  a  man  to  pass,  but  so  high-roofed  that  the 
top  could  not  be  distinguished  amid  the  general  gloom. 
The  rough  sides  were  exquisitely  spangled  and  veined, 
and  Arzur  was  wondering  what  made  them  glisten  so 
prettily  to  the  lantern-rays,  when  his  cogitations  were 
suddenly  cut  short  by  another  bright  light  flashing  into 
his  eyes  and  a  voice  asking  as  calmly  as  if  the  speaker 
were  awaiting  a  guest  at  the  door  of  his  own  little  memoir: 

"Is  that  you,  Frehel?" 

"It  is,  I'm  happy  to  say,  and  so  no  doubt  is  Arzur," 
Olier  responded,  shaking  hands  with  Keben  de  Kerharde'c. 

"I  should  think  so!"  the  lad  exclaimed.  "The  way  of 
the  transgressor  is  hard,  and  no  mistake.  But  where  to 
now?"  he  added,  as,  Keben  leading,  they  wound  their 
way  still  deeper  into  the  cliff. 

A  sharp  turn,  and  they  stood  on  the  threshold  of  a 
much  larger  cave  than  the  first  one,  where  fifteen  or 
twenty  people  were  already  assembled,  and,  as  each  had 
on  entering  deposited  his  lantern  on  the  floor  or  on  some 
projection  of  the  wall,  the  place  was  quite  bright  enough 
to  recognize  each  face  at  first  glance.  In  the  midst  of 
them  was  Rouanez,  wearing  the  short,  striped  under- 
petticoat  and  rolled-up  skirt  and  apron  of  the  paludiere, 
while  over  her  coiffe  the  customary  kerchief  was  bound. 
In  her  hand  she  held  the  twisted  cloth,  or  tor  eke,  that 
cushions  the  head  beneath  the  weight  of  those  huge 
wooden  bowls,  in  which  the  daughters  of  Brittany  bear 
load  after  load  of  salt  along  the  perilously  narrow  strips 
of  dried  mud  that  gridiron  the  marais-salants  into  shallow 
little  harvesting  squares,  while  at  her  feet  lay  the  bowl 
itself,  empty,  save  for  some  few  adherent  and  sparkling 
particles.  It  was  a  costume  far  too  business-like  to  be 

149 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

embellishing,  and  yet  seldom  had  Rouanez  looked  more 
to  her  advantage  than  standing  there  in  her  tiny  sabots 
and  rough,  blue  woollen  stockings,  the  almost  nun-like 
severity  of  her  head-gear  emphasizing  the  purity  of  her 
profile,  and  even  the  clumsiness  of  the  belinge  corsage  ut 
terly  failing  to  hide  the  perfection  of  her  supple  figure. 
She  was  talking  with  unwonted  animation  when  Keben 
approached  with  his  companions,  and  she  merely  nodded 
to  them  without  pausing. 

"...  Not  one  of  the  rank  and  file,"  they  heard  her  say, 
"can  in  any  case  be  endangered,  come  what  may,  pro 
vided  the  instructions  have  been  followed  and  no  written 
orders  have  been  allowed  to  be  sent." 

"  I  think,"  replied  the  Marquis  de  Laoual,  to  whom  she 
was  speaking,  "  that  you  can  rest  easy.  Every  order  has 
been  verbal — passed  on  from  mouth  to  mouth.  Indeed, 
your  idea — and  especially  your  manner  of  carrying  it  out 
— was  little  short  of  a  stroke  of  genius;  for  it  is  the  seiz 
ure  of  papers  that  has  wrecked  so  many  plots,  or  turned 
them  into  disasters  in  the  event  of  failure." 

"Yes,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  that,"  she  continued. 
"And  it  is  an  iniquity  to  hazard  uselessly  the  life  and 
liberty  of  thousands  in  such  a  way.  However,  the  idea 
is  not  mine:  I  borrowed  it  from  the  Arabs,  who  pro 
ceed  in  precisely  the  same  fashion.  .  .  .  Desert  telegraphy, 
swift  and  sure  and  traceless!  Come  here,  Hanvec!"  she 
called  out,  and  Olier's  retainer  stepped  forward  briskly, 
his  back  straight  as  the  pen-baz  he  carried,  and  his  whole 
appearance  that  of  a  man  who  has  suddenly  dropped  half 
his  burden  of  years. 

"Present!"  he  cried,  raising  one  hand  to  the  edge  of 
his  broad-brimmed  hat. 

"This  man,  as  you  know,  Laoual,  is  our  chief  news- 
gatherer,  and,  so  far,  he  has  not  discovered  the  least  cause 

150 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

for  believing  that  our  projects  are  suspected — a  reassuring 
fact,  for  little  escapes  Hanvec's  keenness." 

The  old  man  flushed  with  pride.  "Thank  you,  Itron," 
he  murmured;  "I  watch  night  and  day,  as  for  that,  and 
it  will  have  to  be  a  famous  weasel  that  gives  me  the  slip." 

"There  is  one  famous  weasel  who  will  bear  watching," 
Olier  interrupted,  "and  that  is  Flochard,  Dulac's  secre 
tary.  Guemadeuc  sent  me  word  this  morning  that,  under 
pretence  of  preparing  Rozkavel  Castle  for  his  chief's  ar 
rival,  he  is  prowling  all  over  the  neighborhood.  I  need 
not  add  that  he  is  very  wide-awake  and  sharp." 

"Ah,  the  filthy  hog!"  Hanvec  burst  forth.  "If  ever 
I  could  get  him  alone  on  the  cliff  I'd  make  him  acquainted 
with  the  Hell  of  Plogonak — a  corpse-swallower  that  never 
gives  back  what  one  lends  to  it." 

"Hush,  you  old  brigand"  Olier  chided!  "No  private 
violence  is  permitted.  I've  told  you  that  before." 

Rouanez  laughed.  "Private  violence'  is  good,"  she 
said,  glancing  at  him.  "An  excellent  specification.  As 
to  you,  Hanvec,  you  are  too  well  known  to  that  particular 
weasel  to  spy  upon  him  successfully.  We  have  found  you 
a  lieutenant,  and  a  quick-footed  one,  for  the  Senator's 
mouchard  is  getting  too  ubiquitous." 

"You  had  heard  of  his  present  doings?"  asked  the 
young  Comte  de  Masserac,  who  was  standing  at  her 
elbow. 

"  I  try  to  find  out  all  I  can,"  she  replied,  almost  apolo 
getically,  "and  it's  the  part  of  my  task  I  dislike  most. 
Keleren  1  is  on  Flochard's  track,  and,  as  he  more  than 
deserves  his  sobriquet,  I  think  he  has  a  chance  of  keep 
ing  him  in  sight.  Indeed,  the  boy  has  already  proved 
valuable,  and  we  cannot  thank  Kerharde"c  enough  for 

1  Will-'o-the-wisp. 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

having  procured  him  for  us."  She  paused,  looked  up  at 
the  Marquis  de  Laoual,  and  added:  "Please  tell  them 
now  what  Vende"ens  have  joined  us  this  week,  and  let 
them  repeat  the  list  aloud  several  times,  together  with 
that  of  their  own  chiefs,  so  that  they  may  memorize 
them." 

And  then  followed  an  enumeration  which  alone  was 
sufficient  proof  that  the  Legitimist  party  was  not,  as  so 
many  claimed,  greatly  diminished  since  the  days  of  the 
ill-starred  Duchesse  de  Berri.  One  after  another  the 
grand  old  names  fell  from  Laoual's  lips,  and  like  an  echo 
each  was  twice  repeated  by  the  listeners. 

"  The  registers  of  the  Bastille  can  scarcely  have  equalled 
this,"  Rouanez  said,  very  low,  with  glistening  eyes. 
"Oh,  we  may  succeed,  after  all!" 

"  In  opposition,  we  have  to  set  down  the  names  of 
those  most  likely  to  prove  dangerous  among  our  op 
ponents,"  Laoual  resumed.  "Fortunately  they  are  in 
dividually  not  greatly  to  be  dreaded." 

"There  is  one,"  Rouanez  put  in. 

"Dulac?" 

"No,  higher  up  than  that — in  power,  that  is." 

"The  Prime  Minister?" 

"  Yes.  He  is  clever  —  very  clever,  even  —  in  most 
things.  And  had  it  only  occurred  to  him  to  use  this 
cleverness  in  persuading  his  colleagues  to  avoid  the  error 
of  exaggeration,  we  might  have  whistled  for  the  present 
chance  ...  if  chance  one  may  call  it." 

"Misdirected  talents  are  worse  than  useless,"  young 
MasseYac  interposed,  sententiously,  "and  not  much  to 
be  feared,  I  think." 

Rouanez  turned  to  look  at  him,  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"  His  case,"  she  said,  quietly,  "must  be  a  peculiar  one, 

152 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

then,  for  he  has  certainly  managed  to  gain  influences  that 
can  scarcely  be  overlooked.  Were  he  alone,  instead  of 
being  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  fanatics  and  corrupt  dema 
gogues,  I  for  my  part  would  consider  our  plight  practically 
hopeless." 

The  Marquis  de  Laoual  nodded.  "  I  am  very  much  of 
your  opinion,"  he  admitted;  "all  the  more  so  because 
I  know  the  man  personally,  and  have  been  able  on  more 
than  one  occasion  to  observe  his  undeniable  qualities. 
But,  clever  or  otherwise,  we  must  do  our  best  to  prove 
ourselves  cleverer  still;  which  brings  us  back  to  our 
muttons  by  a  direct  road.  When  do  you  think  that  all 
will  be  ready  for  action,  Rouanez?  Do  not  forget  that 
time  presses.  This  renewal  of  the  famous  Affaire,  thanks 
to  the  imprudent  step  taken  the  other  day  in  connection 
with  the  transplanting  of  what's-his-name's  remains,  is 
all  we  could  desire,  and  we  should  beat  the  iron  while  it 
is  hot.  You  have  accomplished  miracles  in  three  months. 
How  many  weeks  will  it  take  you  and  your  lieutenants 
to  complete  the  work?" 

"That,  my  dear  Laoual,  I  cannot  tell  you  off-hand  like 
this.  But  to-morrow  I  may  possibly  do  so.  The  arma 
ment  of  the  volunteers  is  nearly  complete,  and  I  want 
you  to  come  with  me  to  Gull  Island  in  order  that  you  may 
inspect  our  magazines.  We  are  assured  of  the  enthusias 
tic  co-operation  of  the  regiments  stationed  at  Lorient, 
Brest,  Chateaulin,  Quimper,  Morlaix,  and  Lannion;  which, 
in  effect,  gives  us  control  of  the  most  important  portion 
of  Brittany.  One  regiment  at  Nantes  is  pretty  certain 
to  join  us,  while  Vannes  will  bodily  come  over  to  the 
cause  as  soon  as  the  more  western  districts  have  risen. 
You  know  already  that  our  sister  -  province  is  good. 
Rochefort,  La  Rochelle,  La-Roche-sur-Yon  will  all  bring 
their  contingents  of  soldiers  and  civilians,  while  the  navy 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

I  do  not  for  an  instant  hesitate  to  say  belongs  to  us,  al 
most  en  bloc.  This  should  be  enough  to  set  the  North 
ablaze." 

"Then  surely  we  have  in  hand  the  means  of  bringing 
all  France  to  arms!"  Laoual  exclaimed,  enthusiastically. 
"That  is,  if  you  do  not  view  the  situation  too  favorably." 

"I  don't,"  she  energetically  asserted.  "All  that  has 
been  lacking  hitherto  was  the  leaders.  We  have  those 
now,  and  no  mistake." 

"Thanks  to  you,  who  have  known  how  to  gather  up 
the  four  corners  of  the  Parti,'"  Olier  said,  his  gray  eyes 
shining  oddly  in  the  lantern  lights. 

"Nonsense!"  she  remonstrated,  really  annoyed.  "Any 
body  could  have  done  the  same.  I  have  merely  brought 
to  bear  some  surplus  energy  and  idle  money  that  had  lain 
dormant  too  long;  nothing  more.  Please  don't  say  such 
things  again,  Olier.  I  hate  it!" 

"Very  well,  I  sha'n't,  then,"  he  promised. 

Then  followed  the  real  business  of  the  night,  the  swear 
ing-in  of  several  new  subordinate  leaders,  the  verbal  re 
ports  of  independent  agents,  approval  of  recent  trans 
actions,  including  the  disposal  and  concealment  of  arms 
and  ammunition,  and  the  assignment  of  new  passwords; 
all  of  which  took  so  much  time  that  Olier,  who  seemed 
curiously  restless  for  once  in  a  way,  suddenly  exclaimed, 
almost  impatiently: 

"Let  me  warn  you,  good  people,  that  we  had  better 
make  tracks  now,  for  it  is  past  two  o'clock,  and  in  an  hour 
it  will  be  so  light  that  we  will  be  recognized  by  the  first 
urchin  we  meet;  more  especially  Arzur  and  I,  who  have 
farthest  to  go." 

"Why,  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late,"  Massdrac  cried. 
"  How  are  you  going  home,  Lady  Clanvowe — surely  not 
alone,  as  you  came?" 

154 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Surely  alone,  as  I  came,  my  good  MasseYac;  it  is  the 
safest  way." 

"I  am  not  at  all  sure  of  that,"  Laoual  interrupted. 
"  You  see,  Rouanez,  young  paludieres  do  not  run  about 
the  country  alone.  They  go  in  groups  to  and  from  their 
work  in  the  marshes,  and  a  solitary  one  might  attract 
notice." 

"Young  .  .  .  ?  You  make  me  laugh!  Besides,  who 
is  to  catch  sight  of  me  at  this  hour  on  the  lande?  Do 
you  propose  to  put  on  petticoats  and  a  coiffe,  in  order 
to  form  a  group  with  me?" 

"No,  certainly  not  .  .  .  naturally.  But  suppose  you 
came  along  in  my  boat,  and  I  were  to  take  you  to  your 
yacht?" 

"And  have  my  crew  informed  of  my  nightly  prome 
nades,  disguised,  and  with  gentlemen  wholly  unknown  to 
them?  You  are  talking  feebly,  Laoual.  My  conduct  is 
sufficiently  outrageous  as  it  is,  even  to  the  uninitiated, 
who  only  see  the  best  side  of  it.  I  must  think  of  my  hus 
band  sometimes,  and  not  risk  my  good  name  any  further," 
she  concluded,  with  a  laugh. 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  oppose  you,"  returned  the  Mar 
quis,  "  but  it  is  perfectly  absurd  to  hint  that  your  hus 
band  needs  any  pity.  He  of  all  men  does  not." 

"  He  does,  on  the  contrary,"  she  said,  in  an  altered 
voice,  thinking  of  the  horrible  scandal  in  which  the  failure 
of  the  plot  might  involve  him.  "One  must  risk  some 
thing  for  one's  King,  however,"  she  hastily  added. 

"For  which  one?"  the  sarcastic  voice  of  the  Marquis 
whispered  in  her  ear — "since  we  have  more  Pretenders 
than  Monarchs  ready  to  hand." 

"The  rightful  one,"  she  answered,  smiling.  "And  when 
the  throne  is  comfortably  prepared  and  cushioned,  he'll 
cut  no  bad  figure  there." 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Sapristif"  muttered  Arzur  to  Olier,  who  had  been  close 
enough  to  overhear,  "those  two  at  least  are  not  blinded 
by  partisanship." 

"  Who  could  be  with  their  eyes  open  ?  Who  would  have 
risked  such  an  adventure,  were  it  not  that  matters  have 
come  to  so  ugly  a  head  that  some  cutting  is  sorely  need 
ed?"  was  the  sober  reply.  "And  since  Lady  Clanvowe 
does  not  need  us,  let's  be  off,  you  and  I;  as  it  is,  we'll 
have  to  run."  He  hurried  his  adieus,  bowed  to  the  re 
maining  few,  for  several  had  already  departed,  and,  pick 
ing  up  his  lantern,  re-entered  the  passage,  the  others 
filing  off  by  an  opposite  entrance  that  led  through  similar 
tortuous  windings  to  the  lande. 

Last  of  all,  Rouanez  left  the  sheltering  rock,  and,  when 
assured  that  every  one  had  disappeared,  struck  out 
through  the  wet  heather  across  the  broad  shoulder  of  the 
point.  Her  step  was  less  buoyant  than  usual,  not  on 
account  of  her  tiny  sabots — the  quaint  foot-gear  fitted 
with  perfect  comfort — but  because  what  was  for  her  the 
only  sore  point  of  the  whole  matter  had  just  been  touched, 
and  that  was — Hubert.  Poor  old  Hubert!  What  if  he 
came  back  from  the  other  side  of  the  world  to  find  her 
in  prison  or  else  a  fugitive  from  the  laws  of  her  native 
land?  Had  she  been  quite  within  her  rights  when  she 
placed  herself  at  the  head  of  the  Royalist  party  and  set 
afoot  so  gigantic  a  plan  of  revolt?  She  paused  for  a 
second,  knee-deep  in  the  heather,  her  big  wooden  bowl 
resting  on  her  hip,  and  searched  the  velvet  darkness  for 
an  answer. 

"It  isn't  the  first  time  the  Clanvowes  have  had  to  do 
with  Brittany,"  she  argued,  irrelevantly,  thinking  of  that 
far-away  Sir  John,  who  was  a  captain  of  Chandos,  and 
who,  as  old  Froissart  says,  fought  like  "a  man  out  of 
hys  mynde"  over  the  body  of  the  great  Seneschal  in  that 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

obscure  skirmish  which  sealed  the  fate  of  Guienne.  The 
moon  had  set,  and  the  stars  alone,  twinkling  in  the  deep 
blue  of  the  sky,  prevented  the  chill  hour  before  dawn 
from  being  absolutely  black.  A  faint  breeze  rustled  the 
tough  twigs  of  the  heather,  and  far  below  the  edge  of  the 
falaise  a  c'harc-houat  *  was  mournfully  calling  to  its  mate, 
still  drowsing,  no  doubt,  in  some  rock-hollow. 

"Rather  late  for  regrets,  anyway,"  Rouanez  muttered. 
"All  I've  got  to  do  is  to  stick  by  my  guns  and  hope  for 
the  best.  Hubert  will  forgive  me  anything,  and  then  .  .  . 
one  can  always  end  things  decently  if  the  guns  miss  fire!" 
She  raised  her  disengaged  hand,  dashed  from  her  eyes  a 
moisture  for  which  the  thickly  falling  dew  was  in  no  wise 
responsible,  and  straight  as  a  homing  swallow  made  for 
Fort  Rozkavel,  reaching  it  just  as  the  narrowest  of  pale 
lemon-colored  streaks  was  beginning  to  cut  the  welded 
curve  of  sea  and  sky,  away  over  in  the  mysterious  East. 

*  Widgeon. 


CHAPTER   XII 

Stone-built  and  low,  its  irised  cap  of  thatch 

Quaintly  askew  above  two  windows  small, 
The  footway  to  the  half-door  on  the  latch 

Was  ranked  with  stocks  and  gillyflowers  tall; 

And  fast  above  the  lintel  to  the  wall 
A  holly-bush  gave  token  of  good  cheer, 

And  to  the  worn  wayfarer  seemed  to  call, 
For  three  red  apples  was  her  merry  gear, 
That  said,  "Three  coppers  is  the  price  of  cider  here." 

Seen  from  the  low-walled  lane  a  haven  fair 

Of  peace  it  seemed,  not  elsewhere  to  be  found, 
For  pigeons  stooping  through  the  golden  air 

Made  on  the  gable-end  a  grateful  sound; 

Some  strawen  hives  spread  quiet  all  around, 
And  lacy  tamarisks  timed  the  wind's  refrain, 

And,  visioned  o'er  the  gray  dune's  gentle  mound, 
The  still  gray  sea,  a  broad  and  boundless  plain, 
Rolled  on  the  creaming  sands,  flowed  back,  and  rolled  again. 

From  bench  and  bird-cage  at  the  door  one  passed 

Down  two  rough  steps  into  a  stone-floored  room, 
With  bulging  ceiling  raftered  dark   and  vast, 

Where  all  was  turf  en  scent  and  kindly  gloom; 

Black  oaken  tables  solid  as  a  tomb 
And  stools  to  outlast  centuries  were  there, 

And  provender  until  the  day  of  doom 
Hanging  on  strings — unless  one  must  prepare, 
On  such  a  monstrous  hearth,  a  huger  bill  of  fare! 

The  Breton  Inn. — M.  M. 

THE  little  inn  of  Douar-mat*  was  filled  that  evening  to 
its  uttermost  capacity — not  in  itself  an  extraordinary  oc- 

*  Bonne-terre  (Good  Earth). 
158 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

currence,  since  Kerdikan  was  celebrated  for  miles  around 
for  the  excellence  of  his  cider ;  but  as  the  sardine  season 
had  not  been  turning  out  favorably,  thirst  had  of  late 
been  forcibly  curbed,  and  the  vastness  of  the  present 
gathering  would  have  been  surprising  to  those  who  did 
not  know  that  both  cider  and  calvados  were  on  this  occa 
sion  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  Indeed,  several  brilliantly 
labelled  flagons  of  that  latter  bottled  curse  glowed  wicked 
ly  in  the  light  of  the  smoky  oil-lamps  planted  here  and 
there  on  the  dingy  tables,  while  the  reek  of  a  battery  of 
clay  pipes  rose  thickly  toward  the  strings  of  onions  and 
clusters  of  lard-filled  bladders  garnishing  the  low  ceiling. 
Of  those  present  only  a  very  few  puffed  away  at  cheap 
cigarettes,  and  these  were  progressists  of  the  first  water, 
young  men  who  inclined  toward  new  ideas,  or  else  ex- 
soldiers  and  sailors,  "lighting  paper"  as  they  call  it  there, 
from  habit  contracted  during  their  years  of  service.  In 
Finisterre  the  cigarette  is  in  ill-repute,  as  being  too  effem 
inate  and  dandified,  and  inspires  the  inhabitant  with  no 
confidence. 

Outside,  the  night  was  sympathetically  wet;  the  wind 
waltzing  in  from  the  sea  whistled  shrilly  as  it  came,  and 
the  three  apples  jauntily  stuck  on  the  twisted  branches 
of  the  bunch  of  holly  over  the  door,  to  announce  to  all 
comers  that  the  monetary  value  of  a  bowlful  of  cider  was 
three  sous  precisely,  banged  roughly  against  each  other, 
as  though  they  were  enjoying,  on  their  own  account,  the 
quarrelsome  pleasures  of  a  drunken  spree. 

Blue  blouses  and  white  ones,  woollen  jerseys  and 
broad  breeches,  embroidered  jackets  and  pailletted  waist 
coats,  mixed  their  disparate  hues  all  along  the  lengthy 
oaken  benches,  and  before  the  hearth,  where  a  few  fagots 
crackled  beneath  the  huge  earthenware  marmite,  one 
glossy  black  frock-coat  displayed  its  incongruous  bour- 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

geois  presence  above  a  pair  of  soulfully  pearl-gray  trousers 
and  immaculately  varnished  boots.  The  wearer,  a  ruf 
fianly  featured,  narrow-shouldered,  hollow-chested  man 
of  thirty  or  thereabouts,  was  orating  in  the  raucous  ac 
cents  of  the  Parisian  faubourgs,  and  it  was  plainly  evi 
dent  that  he  took  himself  and  his  present  mission  with 
complete  seriousness.  Unfortunately  for  him,  however, 
he  did  not  understand  his  audience.  Ignorant  of  the  im 
portant  fact  that  while  a  Breton  will  drink  with  anybody, 
when  drunk  all  his  racial  prejudices  become  exacerbated, 
and  blinded  by  the  memory  of  former  forensic  triumphs 
in  the  industrial  sections  of  France,  he  and  his  brandy 
were  rapidly  raising  the  temper  of  the  assembly  against 
himself. 

"I  tell  you,  my  friends,"  he  shouted,  at  the  top  of  his 
unpleasant  voice,  "that  your  day  is  at  hand:  you  who 
have  for  so  long  been  heavily  burdened  by  the  oppressors ! 
Your  wilful  blindness  has  been  the  primary  cause  of  the 
frightful  evils  from  which  you  have  suffered;  your  obsti 
nate  loyalty  to  ideas  and  principles  so  old  that  they  stink 
with  decay  has  landed  you  into  utter  starvation  and  de 
grading  penury.  However,  we  who  from  the  true  intel 
lectual  centre  of  France  have  watched  your  struggles  with 
odds  too  great  for  you  to  bear  are  here  now  to  lend  you 
a  helping  hand,  to  show  you  the  error  of  your  past,  arid 
to  usher  you  into  a  brighter  future.  All  men  are  equal, 
my  friends;  all  men  are  equally  entitled  to  the  goods  of 
this  world.  Long  ago  you  should  have  tumbled  your 
damned  nobles  into  the  gutter!"  He  paused  long  enough 
to  gulp  down  a  generous  bumper  of  mele-cassis,  wipe  his 
thin  lips  on  a  dazzling  crimson  silk  handkerchief,  which 
he  had  once  or  twice  brandished  like  a  patchouli-perfumed 
banner,  and  resumed. 

"We  do  not  promise  more  than  we  intend  to  give,  as 

1 60 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

I  have  already  told  you  a  while  ago.  Look  at  my  chief 
to-day:  many  times  a  millionaire,  raised  by  a  grateful 
Government  to  the  Senate,  an  Officer  of  the  Legion  of 
Honor,  and  what  means  more  still,  my  friends — much 
more — a  man  who  holds  your  destinies  in  his  beneficent 
hand.  What  were  his  beginnings?  Tell  me  that:  what 
were  his  beginnings  ?" 

No  one  seemed  to  know  what  these  beginnings  had  been, 
which  saved  the  orator  an  awkward  minute,  and,  satis 
fied  on  that  point,  he  felt  safe  to  bluff  along  as  before. 
"Ah!"  he  bellowed,  banging  his  fist  so  violently  on  the 
nearest  table  that  the  thick  glasses  with  which  it  was  lit 
tered  rang  dully,  "you  do  not  know  that,  but  I  do,  and 
I  am  proud  of  the  knowledge;  prouder  still  to  be  able  to 
impart  it  to  you.  This  great  and  good  man  was,  like 
yourselves,  born  in  a  lowly  cottage;  nay,  so  poor  was 
his  parents'  habitation  that  it  might  better  be  compared 
to  a  stable — to  the  stable  where —  Here  alcoholic  enthu 
siasm  inspired  so  sacrilegious  a  comparison  that  a  growl 
of  indignation  ran  from  bench  to  bench,  and  Dulac's  pru 
dent  secretary,  bolting  down  the  rest  of  his  panegyric 
upon  the  advantages  conferred  by  the  Great  and  In 
divisible  Republican  Scheme,  attempted  to  turn  the  gen 
eral  attention  into  a  safer  channel  by  means  of  a  more 
concrete  example. 

"Behold  this  idiot  crouching  at  my  feet!"  he  cried, 
pointing  contemptuously  to  the  hearth-stone  where  hud 
dled  the  pitiful  figure  of  Gregor  the  Innocent,  lank,  tall, 
ill-built,  with  a  forest  of  drab-colored  hair  falling  upon 
his  dirty  face  and  completely  hiding  his  eyes;  a  poor 
wretch,  who  wore  by  choice  over  his  gaunt  limbs  a  dilapi 
dated  skirt,  torn  and  tattered,  and  draped  his  square, 
high  shoulders  in  a  once  garish  shawl,  now  faded  and 
fringed  with  brambles.  "Look  at  him!  He  might  have 

"  161 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

been  a  man  like  you  and  me  had  not  his  evil  fate  caused 
him  to  be  born  where  ignorance  reigns  supreme,  and 
where  he  was  allowed  to  fall  into  neglect  until  he  has 
become  an  object  of  disgust  and  mockery  to  all!" 

Alas!  Monsieur  Flochard  had  made  yet  another  mis 
take! 

"No!  No!"  several  voices  protested,  indignantly; 
"Gregor  is  an  innocent,  but  he  is  a  good  lad,  and  he 
brings  us  luck.  Nobody  laughs  at  him  here!" 

More  than  one  fierce  face  was  stretched  out  toward  the 
somewhat  discomfited  windbag.  A  few  of  the  most  hot 
headed  or  the  most  drunk  got  to  their  feet  and  forced 
their  way  noisily  toward  him.  Decidedly  the  meeting 
was  assuming  a  stormy  aspect,  and  the  agitator's  sallow 
face  began  to  whiten,  when  suddenly  a  huge  man,  who 
had  been  quietly  sitting  in  a  corner,  rose  and  pushed 
through  the  crowd. 

He  wore  the  short  brown  homespun  jacket  and  knee- 
breeches  of  a  metayer,  and  on  his  white  locks  the  flatter- 
brimmed,  velvet-bound  hat  that  distinguishes  the  farmer 
classes  from  the  salt-workers. 

"Be  still,  you  fools!"  he  called  out  through  the 'rising 
turmoil,  in  a  voice  that  commanded  instant  attention. 
"  I  warned  you  what  you  would  hear  from  that  carrion- 
crow,  but  you  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  You  came  to  drink 
his  poison  through  your  ears  and  through  your  besotted 
mouths.  Now  don't  you  dare  to  lay  a  finger  on  him. 
Listen  some  more,  on  the  contrary,  and  let  him  fill  your 
heads  with  more  rubbish.  You  owe  it  to  him  in  pay 
ment  for  his  treat!" 

"Who  are  you?"  the  Senator's  Agent  Provocateur  asked, 
quaveringly.  "Not  a  Kremarze  peasant,  nor  one  from 
Rozkavel,  I  think." 

"No,  my  master,"  the  old  man  answered,  contemptu- 

162 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

ously,  "  neither  from  Kremarze'  nor  from  Rozkavel  either, 
but  from  Laoual,  where  such  vermin  as  you  are  not  given 
free  entry.  I  know  you  well,  Monsieur  Antoine  Flochard, 
for  it  was  you  who  carried  out  your  Patron's  fine  plan  of 
bringing  foreign  oysters  to  our  shores,  which  must  have 
been  his  little  way  of  bettering  our  lot!" 

At  this  a  murmur  rising  louder  and  louder  filled  the 
low-ceiled  room.  Every  man  there  was  leaning  forward 
eagerly  in  his  seat,  and  it  was  evidently  only  intense 
curiosity  as  to  what  the  tall  farmer  would  do  next  that 
held  the  crowd  quiet. 

"  You  weren't  so  proud  then,  my  fine  cockerel.  I  was 
there  visiting  my  daughter,  who's  married  to  an  oyster- 
man  up  that  way,  when  the  freres  de  la  cote  mashed  up 
every  accursed  foreign  shell,  and  I  saw  you  decamp  be 
fore  they  could  get  their  fingers  on  you.  You  talk  of  our 
old  ways.  They  were  the  good  ones.  Yours  are  filthy, 
and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  so  to  your  face,  you  black 
guard,  who  come  here  to  rouse  the  devil  in  our  young 
men's  hot  brains!" 

The  secretary's  bile-injected  eyes  were  rolling  in  his 
head,  like  little  wheels,  with  fright.  The  tense  stillness, 
the  cold,  concentrated  stare  of  that  hostile  gathering  were 
disquieting  things,  but  his  formidable  accuser  seemed  to 
assure  him  protection,  and  also  his  pay  was  too  big  to  be 
risked,  so  he  plucked  up  enough  courage  to  try  and  turn 
the  tables  on  his  opponents. 

"And  what  are  your  great  people  doing  for  you  at 
Laoual?"  he  shrilly  demanded,  standing  on  tiptoe  in  his 
unconscious  desire  to  emulate  the  giant's  magnificent 
poise.  "  Has  your  fine  Marquis  who  drives  four-in-hand 
and  owns  a  yacht  given  up  those  to  feed  the  hungry  and 
clothe  the  naked  that  abound  on  his  land?" 

A  sudden  roar  of  laughter  greeted  the  question,  and  the 

163 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

tall  form  of  Kerdikan  the  innkeeper  shouldered  itself  be 
tween  the  two  angry  men. 

"  I've  let  you  go  on  a  good  little  while,  M'sieu  Flo- 
chard,"  he  said,  grimly,  "  for  the  reason  that  it's  not  in  the 
interest  of  my  business  to  fall  foul  of  you,  and  further 
more,  because  more  than  half  of  those  here  don't  under 
stand  a  word  of  what  you  say  in  your  French  lingo.  But 
don't  you  go  throwing  your  slime  on  M'sieu  1'Marquis  de 
Laoual,  who  gives  three-quarters  of  his  revenues  to  the 
poor,  and  who  stood  by  all  of  us,  even  of  Kremarze  and 
Rozkavel,  during  the  last  spell  of  cholera,  when  he  and 
Madame  la  Marquise  went  from  bedside  to  bedside  as  un 
afraid  as  if  the  complaint  was  toothache.  Is  it  your 
Dulac  who'd  do  the  same,  or  give  one  centime  when  no 
body  knew  of  it?  Pah!  You  make  me  sick;  you  and 
your  big  speeches!  In  Morbihan  perhaps,  or  the  Loire- 
Inferieure,  you  might  talk  so.  But  we  of  Finisterre  don't 
listen  out  of  the  same  ear.  Pack  up  your  wares  and  go 
offer  them  somewhere  else,  if  you  don't  want  your  head 
cracked  open." 

The  idiot  crawling  on  the  floor  gave  a  blood-curdling 
croak  of  glee — no  doubt  at  the  uproar,  which  agreeably 
tickled  his  sense  of  hearing — and  Flochard  turned  with 
staring,  frightened  eyes  to  look  whence  the  sound  came. 

"So  you  choose  to  stick  by  the  old  ways!"  he  shouted, 
out  of  the  extremity  of  his  terror.  He  had  lost  all  chance 
of  power  over  them — for  the  present  at  least — and  he 
knew  it.  He  knew,  too,  that  he  was  in  danger,  for  he  had 
maddened  most  of  them  with  drink.  Every  nerve  of  his 
mean  little  carcass  trembled,  but  he  made  the  last  des 
perate  effort  of  a  cornered  rat.  "  Remember  that  we 
hold  the  handle  of  the  axe,"  he  screamed  again;  "that 
we  can  cut  your  bonds  or  else  your  necks!" 

"Go  to  Hell  with  your  axe,  or  use  it  on  yourself!"  a 

164 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

young  fisherman  bellowed,  his  eyes  red  with  rage  and 
brandy,  lurching  forward  to  shake  a  leg-of-mutton  fist 
under  the  orator's  nose.  "  Here  Hanvec,  Hoel,  Touan, 

7     */ 

Kerdikan,  all  of  you  men  of  Kremarze,  come  here  and 
we'll  roll  him  down  the  falaise.  Down  the  rocks  with  him. 
Hardi  les  gars!  Over  the  edge  with  the  failli  chien!" 

In  a  second  the  whole  place  was  in  an  uproar,  and  there 
was  no  time  to  be  lost  if  murder  could  still  be  avoided. 
There  was  a  ghastly  livid  patch  on  each  of  Flochard's 
cheeks,  and  his  lips  were  working  convulsively.  With 
one  stride  the  huge  farmer  from  Laoual  reached  him, 
seized  him  by  the  collar,  and  lifting  him  bodily  from  the 
floor,  rushed  him  to  the  door,  which  he  kicked  open. 
"Run  for  your  life!"  he  said,  throwing  him  out  into  the 
darkness,  and  then  slamming  to  the  heavy  oak,  set  his 
back  against  it  and  faced  the  struggling  mob. 

"Take  it  easy,  boys,"  he  said,  in  his  quiet  voice  of 
command.  "He  is  out  of  reach  by  this  time,  for  his 
devil's  car  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  cross-roads.  And 
now  listen  to  me!" 

The  snarling,  savage  pack  fell  back  before  the  calm 
unconcern  of  the  white-haired  man,  whom,  by-the-way, 
no  one  had  seen  there  before  that  night.  This  in  itself, 
however,  in  nowise  diminished  the  influence  he  had  rapid 
ly  gained  over  them;  for  there  is  so  little  visiting  in  Brit 
tany  between  villages,  even  when  only  a  few  miles  apart, 
that  it  occurred  to  none  of  these  for  the  most  part  rather 
befuddled  brains  to  question  the  metayer's  genuineness. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  who  am  old  and  have  seen  much," 
he  began  again,  amid  a  sudden  silence,  and  in  the  courte 
ous  tone  which  they  invariably  adopt  out  there  for  public 
speaking,  "if  I,  although  not  belonging  to  your  com 
munes,  ask  you  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  that 
man  of  evil  words  and  deeds  whom  I  have  just  saved 

165 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

from  your  fists.  I  have  been  many  years,  boy  and  man, 
in  the  service  of  our  Marquis,  and  it  gives  me,  I  think, 
title  to  make  a  few  remarks  to  you  of  Kremarze  and 
Rozkavel.  You  heard  that  Flochard  just  now  advise  us 
to  roll  our  nobles  in  the  gutter.  The  same  was  done  long 
ago  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  and  what  was  gained 
by  it?  Are  we  better  off  than  our  fathers  were  then? 
Do  we  get  more  to  eat  ?  Do  our  fields  yield  more  or  our 
stockings  hold  a  greater  quantity  of  silver  bits  ?  He  says 
that  one  man  is  as  good  as  another,  and  that  there  should 
be  equality  of  rights  and  property.  But  he  took  good 
care  not  to  explain  to  you  that  the  manner  in  which  he 
and  his  kind  get  on  is  by  rifling  their  neighbor's  plum- 
trees.  One  can  always  do  that  when  one  is  clever  enough ; 
but  it  isn't  a  clean  way  to  fill  one's  belly.  Our  nobles 
have  their  faults;  why  shouldn't  they?  But  at  any  rate 
they  have  always  stuck  by  us,  and  even  the  poorest  never 
refuse  to  share  their  bit  of  bread  with  those  of  us  who 
belong  to  them." 

"That's  true!  That's  true!"  came  from  several  of  the 
slowly  sobering  listeners. 

"Yes,  it's  true,"  the  Laoual  farmer  resumed.  "You 
think  perhaps  that  if  you  gave  up  the  old  faiths  you'd  be 
out  of  the  mire;  but  you  would  not.  You  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  yourselves — all  of  you  here — to  have  drunk 
at  that  bad  adviser's  expense.  Drink  is  your  curse.  You 
men  and  boys,  here,  for  a  pint  of  calvados  would  sell  your 
last  measure  of  wheat.  It  makes  you  beat  your  wives, 
neglect  your  work,  and  come  home  dissatisfied  with  your 
lot.  In  a  little  while  your  very  blood  will  turn  into 
brandy,  and  it's  then  that  you'll  become  the  prey  of  the 
Flochards  and  Dulacs,  and  other  miscreants  who  want 
to  use  your  backs  to  climb  to  high  places.  Fools  that 
you  are,  can't  you  see  that  it  is  so?  They'd  soon  show 

1 66 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

you  how  fair  and  generous  they  are  if  you  asked  them  for 
help!  How  did  they  treat  the  vine-growers  of  the  South, 
men  of  their  own  kidney,  who  were  only  putting  into 
practice  their  own  ideas,  when  they  asked  for  assistance  ? 
Did  they  loose  their  purse  -  strings,  as  from  Socialist 
to  Socialist?  Not  a  whit.  They  gave  them  bullets  to 
chew;  nothing  softer;  nothing  more  nourishing;  just 
lead!  I  dare  say  you  are  hungry  for  some  too.  You 
used  to  be  good  Christians  once.  You  went  to  Mass  with 
your  women,  and  did  mostly  what  was  right.  But  now 
you  are  catching  the  same  disease  that  these  accursed 
Francs  have,  and  if  you  don't  look  out  it  will  gain  on 
you,  till  you  have  become  as  rotten  as  the  rest  .  .  .  yes, 
rotten  to  the  core  ...  to  the  point  of  blaspheming  the 
Holy  Saints  and  Martyrs,  disregarding  decency  and 
morality,  murdering  your  unborn  children,  and  striving 
after  illicit  gain.  That  is  what  such  progress  as  is  held 
up  before  your  eyes  means;  progress  that  is  depopulat 
ing  France  so  rapidly  that  those  who  read  of  the  numbers 
of  the  people  in  the  newspapers  are  frightened.  Do  you 
know  that  the  navy — our  navy,  for  it  always  has  been 
ours  more  than  anybody  else's — is  falling  behind  those  of 
other  countries?  Monsieur  le  Marquis  read  that  to  me 
the  other  day.  We  are  only  fourth  now,  after  being 
second.  That  is  progress,  is  it  not  ?  I  wish  I  could  speak 
better  than  I  do,  so  that  you  might  better  understand. 
Take  my  poor  little  warning,  however,  men  of  Finisterre, 
take  it  as  it  is  given,  from  the  heart  of  my  soul.  And 
now  I've  had  my  say  out,  and  there's  nothing  more." 

He  had  been  feeling  for  the  door- fastening  behind  his 
back  while  finishing  his  harangue,  and,  slipping  it  noise 
lessly,  he  stepped  out  backward  into  the  stormy  night, 
fastened  the  latch  from  the  outside,  and  was  gone. 

A  babel  of  voices  broke  forth,  and  every  single  man  rose 

167 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

to  his  feet  and  rushed  forward  to  bring  once  more  among 
them  the  speaker  who  had  managed  to  tell  them  hard 
truths,  and  yet  reach  their  better  selves,  but  Kerdikan 
and  Hanvec  stood  between. 

"Let  him  go!"  the  innkeeper  ordered.  "He's  said  his 
say.  Go  home,  boys,  and  chew  on  the  quid  he's  handed 
you.  He's  a  wise  one,  is  that  Laoual  man!" 

"He  is  that!     He  is  that!"  every  one  cried. 

"Well,  then,  do  as  he  bade  you  do,"  Hanvec  cried,  per 
emptorily. 

"But  who  is  he?"  they  demanded,  pressing  closer. 
"  Tell  us  who  he  is,  at  least.  His  tongue  is  famously  long, 
and  he  knows  what  he  is  talking  about." 

"  A  farmer  from  Laoual.  He  told  you  so  himself.  Go 
home,  go  home;  there's  been  enough  babble  for  one  night. 
Take  them  away,  Hanvec.  I  must  close  up,  or  else  that 
Flochard  will  have  the  law  on  me." 

Slowly,  silently,  the  crestfallen  and  greatly  sobered 
crew  filed  out  and  marched  off  beneath  the  sluicing  rain 
in  different  directions.  The  idiot  had  crept  from  the 
auberge  without  being  noticed  a  little  while  before.  Im 
mediately  the  place  was  cleared,  Kerdikan  put  up  the 
stout  bars  of  the  front  entrance,  then  crossed  over  to  the 
other  side,  and,  quickly  unfastening  a  narrower  door  giving 
on  a  small  garden-plot,  called  softly:  "Monsieur  le  Mar 
quis!  Monsieur  le  Comte!" 

The  wind  had  risen  to  a  half  gale,  and  he  had  to  repeat 
the  call  a  little  louder.  "Where  are  they?"  he  was  anx 
iously  muttering,  when  two  shadows  detached  themselves 
from  the  rain-beaten  wall  and  passed  into  the  house,  drip 
ping  from  head  to  foot. 

"The  Saints  have  pity  on  us!"  Kerdikan  muttered. 
"But  you  are  wet  through,  my  gentlemen.  Fortunately 
your  own  clothes  are  in  the  bread-hutch,  safe  and  warm." 

1 68 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Pitiful  figures,  indeed,  those  two  cut,  in  their  bedrag 
gled,  borrowed  plumes.  The  farmer  of  Laoual,  with  his 
venerable  white  wig  soaked  and  limp  beneath  the  half- 
melted,  broad-leafed  hat,  and  the  pseudo-idiot,  shaking 
out  his  grotesque  skirts;  more  of  a  scarecrow  than  the 
real  Grdgor — safely  sleeping  somewhere  with  the  pigs — 
had  ever  been. 

"Gwd!  M'sieu  Arzur,"  continued  the  innkeeper,  "it's 
not  nice  to  see  you  like  that.  Take  off  these  clothes 
while  I  throw  a  fagot  on  the  fire." 

Arzur  was  laughing,  but  a  little  ruefully.  He  had  not 
relished  his  loathsome  disguise,  and  disgustedly  threw  his 
own  wig  upon  the  floor,  before  plunging  a  sadly  begrimed 
face  in  a  bowl  of  water  standing  on  the  broad  window-sill. 

"Pouah!"  he  spluttered,  emerging  from  the  soapsuds. 
"What  a  wretched  business!" 

The  Marquis  de  Laoual's  handsome  features  were  set 
and  stern.  "I  don't  like  playing  spy  any  better  than 
you  do,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of  severity,  "but  we  had 
to  know  what  that  individual  would  tell  them,  and  this 
was  the  only  way." 

"I  know.  Don't  think  I  am  complaining,  Monsieur 
de  Laoual,"  Arzur  hastily  interrupted.  "And  one  can 
scarcely  call  it  playing  spy,  either.  You  were  superb. 
Lord!  I  came  very  near  applauding  you  aloud.  I  can't 
imagine  how  you  managed  to  change  even  your  voice 
and  give  it  that  characteristic  intonation.  Oh,  it  was 
perfect !  Such  a  make-up !  I  never  would  have  dreamed 
that  forty  could  be  made  to  look  so  like  seventy!" 

Here  Kerdikan,  who  had  coaxed  the  dying  embers  into 
a  satisfactory  blaze,  began  to  add  his  praise  to  Arzur's. 

"They'll  not  soon  forget  what  M'sieu  1'Marquis  told 
them.  Every  word  carried  its  weight,"  he  said,  enthu 
siastically.  "And  served  them  right,  too,  the  thin-brains ! 

169 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

But  all  this  bodes  no  good,"  he  continued,  scratching  his 
luridly  blond  head  thoughtfully.  "That  particular  will 
not  forget  either!  He  is  not  quite  a  fool,  though,  in  spite 
of  all.  Suppose  he  twigs  that  there's  something  more 
afoot  than  usual,  what  then?" 

"  He  won't  have  a  chance  to  do  much,  my  good  Kerdi- 
kan,"  the  Marquis  reassured  him.  "  Everything  is  all  but 
ready  for  the  final  surprise,  and  in  a  very  short  space  of 
time  ..."  He  stopped  long  enough  to  get  into  the  tweed 
coat  the  innkeeper  was  holding  up  to  him,  carefully  settled 
his  tie  and  collar,  and  concluded:  "We  will  conduct  him 
and  his  precious  patron  back  to  where  they  belong,  I  hope." 

"We  all  who  know  wish  that  moment  was  already  here, 
M'sieu  1'Marquis,"  Kerdikan  said,  feelingly.  "  You'll  have 
done  a  great  deed  for  us." 

"I?"  Monsieur  de  Laoual  protested.  "I  merely  obey 
orders,  as  you  do  yourself,  Kerdikan.  It  is  Miladi  whom 
you  will  have  to  thank,  if  we  succeed.  She's  the  soul  and 
spirit  of  it  all." 

"A  mighty  extraordinary  Lady!  I  saw  her  yesterday 
for  a  moment.  She  was  riding  past  on  that  gold-colored 
horse  of  hers,  and  stopped  to  shake  hands  with  me  as 
friendly  as  you  please:  'You  remind  me  of  your  father, 
Kerdikan,'  she  says  to  me,  smiling;  'and  every  time  I 
look  at  you  I  think  of  the  time  when  I  used  to  come  and 
bring  my  pony  to  be  shod  at  his  forge.'  Isn't  it  wonder 
ful,  M'sieu  1'Marquis,  to  hear  a  thing  like  that  from  a 
Lady  who  doesn't  seem  much  more  than  twenty-five, 
saving  the  presence  of  her  white  hair;  and  beautiful  it  is, 
too,  shining  like  threads  of  mica  at  full-moon  time." 

"  You're  a  poet  in  your  way,  Kerdikan,"  Arzur  approved 
from  the  hearth-step,  whereon  he  sat  enthroned,  calmly 
toasting  a  thick  crust  of  brown  bread  over  the  layer  of 
embers  frontiering  the  fire. 

170 


THE    CRADLE    OF   THE    ROSE 

Monsieur  de  Laoual  turned  to  look  at  him  in  surprise. 
"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  you 
are  hungry?" 

"As  hungry  as  a  bear.  You  cannot  imagine  how  emo 
tions  always  rack  my  stomach.  And  this,"  he  compla 
cently  continued,  "sopped  in  a  bowl  of  cider  will  about 
satisfy  its  cravings." 

"Oh,  very  well,  have  your  .  .  .  supper,  then;  but  don't 
be  too  long  about  it,  for  the  tide  waits  for  no  man,  and 
in  an  hour  my  canot  will  not  be  able  to  approach  the  rocks. 
And  now  as  to  you,  Kerdikan,  I  want  you  to  go  to  Kre- 
marze'  early  to-morrow  morning  and  tell  Monsieur  de 
Frehel  that  the  rendezvous  is  at  the  edge  of  the  little  cove 
of  Sten,  between  half-past  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock." 

"To-morrow  night?"  Arzur  inquired,  grinding  away  at 
the  crisp  crust. 

"  Yes,  naturally.  We  can't  go  to  Gull  Island  in  broad 
daylight!  And,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  wish  you  could 
manage  to  accompany  us,  Kerdikan.  Is  there  any  pos 
sibility  of  your  finding  somebody  to  mind  your  inn  for  a 
few  hours,  or  can  you  simply  lock  it  up?" 

"I  can  get  my  nephew  to  attend  to  it  until  the  closing 
hour,  M'sieu  1'Marquis,  and  he'll  sleep  here.  All  I've  got 
to  do  is  to  tell  him  that  I  am  obliged  to  ride  to  the  Fair, 
which,  as  luck  will  have  it,  begins  day  after  to-morrow  in 
Poulduro-town." 

"  Excellent !  You  were  armorer  of  your  squadron,  were 
you  not,  Kerdikan?" 

"Yes,  M'sieu  1'Marquis." 

"That  makes  everything  easy.  And  now  if  you  happen 
to  have  satisfactorily  allayed  the  cravings  of  your  stom 
ach,  Arzur,  we'll  be  off.  Lord,  how  it  rains!"  he  added, 
as  a  noisy  torrent  of  wind-whipped  water  slashed  the 
thick  window-shutter.  "We  were  wise  to  wear  oil-skins 

171 


THE    CRADLE    OF   THE    ROSE 

and  sou'westers.  We'll  go  out  through  the  turf-shed, 
Kerdikan,  so  as  to  avoid  opening  the  door  of  this  lighted 
room.  I  don't  know  why,  but  during  the  past  few  days 
I've  had  the  feeling  that  somebody's  watching  me!" 

Kerdikan,  on  his  way  to  unlock  the  turf-shed  door, 
turned  swiftly. 

"Walk  close  to  the  walls,  gentlemen,  and  I'll  follow 
you  at  some  distance.  Nom  de  Dieu!  I  wish  I  could 
catch  somebody  spying  on  you!"  he  said,  with  sudden 
ferocity.  "  I'd  soon  silence  him,  whoever  he'd  be."  And 
as  the  two  walked  on  together  through  the  wall-enclosed 
lane,  the  huge  form  of  the  innkeeper,  indistinguishable  in 
the  pitchy  darkness,  padded  noiselessly  after  in  his  heavy 
woollen  socks  through  the  ankle-deep  mud. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

High  on  the  promontory's  seaward  limb 

A  marvellous  great  pit-hole  sloped  adown 
Unto  a  mouth  ot  darkness  rude  and  grim, 

Wherein — so  ran  the  whisper  of  renown — 

Souls  of  the  damned  eternally  did  drown: 
Churned  in  the  gorge  of  hell  the  live-long  day, 

Night  brought  a  boon — to  drink  upon  the  crown 
Of  that  great  cliff  until  the  dawnlight  gray 
The  sea-wind,  speeding  fresh  from  thousand  miles  of  spray. 

The  pit-wall  was  y-broken  toward  the  sea, 

A  great  cleft  reaching  almost  to  the  tide, 
But  here  the  hell-mouth  from  its  surgings  free 

A  lip  of  world-old  granite  did  divide. 

There  in  sleek  circuit  horribly  did  glide 
An  evil  pool,  or  foamed  a  boiling  stark, 

That,  after  gulping  high  in  ghastly  pride 
Until  the  utmost  edge  its  slime  did  mark, 
In  sick  green  swirling  rings  sucked  downward  to  the  dark. 

None  but  low,  dreadful  devil-sounds  it  made 

To  chill  the  very  heart  (and  suiting  so 
Its  raw,  dank  breathing  struck  the  soul  afraid 

As  of  some  dead  abysm  far  below), 

Save  when  the  high  surf  in  a  wrath  of  snow 
Stormed  in,  and  then  the  roaring  current-swale 

Fought  like  white  dragons  in  the  Pit  of  Woe, 
And  far  abroad,  'neath  sun  or  starlight  pale, 
Wild  thunder  flowed  and  flared  upon  the  veering  gale. 

The  Hell  of  Plogonak.—U.  M. 

LADY  CLANVOWE,  seated  at  her  desk,  was  busily  writing 
to  her  husband.  There  was,  she  knew,  no  certainty  at 
all  of  these  weekly  letters  reaching  him  before  he  once 

173 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

more  re-entered  civilized  regions,  but  this  was  no  sufficient 
reason  for  her  to  neglect  her  promise,  and  the  agile  pen 
flew  easily  over  page  after  page  of  exquisite  description. 

Barring  the  one  great  occupation  of  her  present  life, 
which,  of  course,  she  could  not  even  distantly  allude  to, 
there  was  little  for  her  to  tell;  but  having  been  endowed 
among  other  gifts,  with  an  extreme  facility  for  saying 
things  prettily,  whether  she  spoke  or  wrote,  she  was  never 
at  a  loss  for  material.  Still,  this  morning  the  task  did  not 
seem  quite  so  grateful  as  usual,  and  once  or  twice  she 
paused,  first  to  straighten  mechanically  the  heavy  head 
of  a  carnation,  a  thick  hedge  of  which  fragrant  blossoms 
encircled  three  sides  of  the  desk-top,  and  then  to  blow 
away  some  few  dust-specks  that  had  settled  on  the  big 
enamel  -  framed  photograph  of  her  lord,  occupying  the 
place  of  honor  immediately  in  front  of  her. 

"Poor  Hubert!"  she  said,  softly,  letting  her  gaze  linger 
upon  the  clean-cut,  severe  features  and  kindly  eyes  of  the 
portrait.  "  What  would  he  say  if  he  knew?"  She  leaned 
her  round  chin  in  her  palm  and  continued  to  contemplate 
the  picture,  but  her  thoughts  wandered,  and  so  absorbed 
was  she  that  the  slow  opening  of  a  door  behind  failed  to 
arouse  her.  To  be  sure,  since  Grafton's  was  the  hand  on 
the  knob,  it  followed  naturally  that  the  little  operation 
had  been  silently  performed;  but  even  the  faint  click  of 
the  portiere-rings  as  he  glided  in  was  unheard,  and  sev 
eral  minutes  elapsed  before  an  uncomfortable  sensation 
brought  her  back  from  her  re  very,  and  she  glanced  up. 

Immediately  behind  the  desk  hung  a  curious  antique 
mirror,  a  long,  narrow  bit  of  glass,  framed  in  very  old 
carved  pear-wood,  and  reflected  in  its  slightly  dulled  sur 
face  she  saw  a  hitherto  unknown  countenance,  intense  and 
straining,  with  wide  eyes  and  parted  lips.  Not  a  muscle 
of  her  face  moved ;  she  did  not  stir,  but  through  her  eye- 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

lashes  she  concentrated  all  the  force  of  her  keen  sight  upon 
the  craning  head  and  shoulders  of  the  watcher. 

Could  this  really  be  the  impassive,  correct,  dignified 
Grafton  ?  she  asked  herself,  almost  doubting  that  what  she 
saw  was  real.  For  she  read  devouring  eagerness  on  those 
tense  features,  and  something  far  more  surprising  yet — 
actual  dread,  the  dread  that  takes  possession  of  a  man 
and  becomes  his  guiding  power.  What  under  the  sun 
could  so  disorder  a  correct  conventional  individual  like 
him,  Lady  Clanvowe's  keen  and  quick  understanding  was 
unable  even  distantly  to  guess  just  then.  Surely  the 
great,  peaceful,  sunny,  flower-filled  room,  with  its  one 
quiet  occupant,  could  produce  no  such  strange  impres 
sion  ;  and  yet  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  it — Grafton  was 
in  the  grip  of  some  unknown  apprehension  of  which  she 
was  the  cause.  Step  by  step  she  saw  him  approach,  ut 
terly  unconscious  of  having  been  perceived,  and  bend 
further  and  further  forward,  evidently  to  try  and  catch 
a  glimpse  of  the  sheets  of  paper  scattered  about  the 
blotter.  Fortunately  the  first  one,  where  "My  dear 
Hubert"  was  inscribed  in  her  clear  writing,  lay  upper 
most,  and  suddenly  Grafton  began  a  retrograde  move 
ment  toward  the  door,  walking  backward,  and  with  such 
care  and  deftness  that  a  shadow  would  not  have  been 
more  noiseless.  Still  she  sat  motionless,  her  chin  in  her 
palm,  and  this  time  the  portiere-rings  did  not  click;  but 
in  a  few  seconds  she  heard  the  door-handle  turn  deliber 
ately,  after  a  light  knock,  and  some  one  enter  slowly. 

"Who  is  that?"  she  asked,  in  her  ordinary  manner, 
and  turned  quite  naturally  at  the  "Grafton,  my  lady," 
which  came  in  answer. 

"What  is  it,  Grafton?  Has  Captain  Penruddock  ar 
rived?" 

"No,  my  lady,"  the  butler  replied.     "I  came  to  ask 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

whether   your   ladyship   would   ride  out  this  afternoon. 
James  is  below  waiting  for  orders." 

Rouanez  glanced  out  of  the  window  at  the  pale-blue 
sky  and  sun-shot  waves,  and  appeared  to  ponder.  "I 
am  not  sure,"  she  said,  twirling  her  penholder  between 
her  fingers.  "Tell  Jim  to  come  again  just  before  lunch 
eon.  Perhaps  since  the  weather  is  so  fine  I  will  paddle 
about  in  the  canoe — and,  by-the-way,  Grafton,  have  you 
any  message  for  Sir  Hubert?  I  am  writing  to  him,"  she 
explained,  waving  the  penholder  toward  her  letter  and 
turning  a  smiling  face  toward  the  faithful  and  devoted 
old  servitor. 

"No,  my  lady  .  .  .  that  is,  yes,  my  lady;  since  your 
ladyship  is  so  kind  .  .  .  my  service  and  respect  to  my 
master  as  usual." 

"Certainly,  your  service  and  respect  as  usual,"  she 
slowly  repeated.  "  I  will  also  assure  him  of  the  way  in 
which  you  fulfil  your  mission  here.  He  will,  I  know,  be 
pleased  to  hear  how  you  watch  over  me  and  attend  to 
my  comfort." 

The  shrewdest  observer  could  have  detected  no  trace 
of  irony  or  double  meaning  in  the  even,  friendly  tone, 
and  yet  Grafton's  pale  eyes  wavered,  and  he  so  far  de 
parted  from  his  stringent  principles  as  to  shift  his  weight 
from  one  foot  to  the  other — though  of  course  noiselessly. 

"Thank  you,  my  lady  ...  I  hope  I  know  my  duty,"  he 
murmured,  staring  at  the  points  of  his  patent-leather  pumps. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  Grafton.  And  now  please  send  Jwala- 
Singh  to  me.  I  have  some  instructions  for  him." 

She  turned  her  back  on  his  retreating  figure,  and  ap 
parently  sank  once  more  into  the  depths  of  epistolary 
composition;  but  as  a  matter  of  fact,  her  pen  did  not 
touch  paper  again  until  the  tall  form  of  the  Sikh  suddenly 
appeared  at  her  elbow  as  if  it  had  risen  from  the  carpet. 

176 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"I  have  remarkably  silent  attendants,"  she  thought; 
"but  Jwala-Singh's  noiselessness  is  neither  stealthy  nor 
disquieting,  which  forms  a  pleasant  contrast  to — "  And 
aloud  she  said  to  the  salaaming  Hindu:  "  I  want  to  know, 
Jwala-Singh,  whether  you  have  noticed  lately  any  change 
in  Graf  ton's  manner."  She  knew  her  man  too  well  to  cau 
tion  him  to  keep  secret  what  she  was  about  to  tell  him ; 
discretion  from  him  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

"Since  we  are  here,  my  lady?"  Jwala-Singh  spoke 
almost  faultless  English,  although  he  had  an  Oriental 
weakness  for  excursions  into  the  decorative  and  hyper 
bolic. 

"  Yes;  but  more  especially  lately.  He  seems  .  .  .  afraid 
of  something  or  other,  and  I  have  noticed  that  he  prowls 
about  a  good  deal." 

"  He  watches  day  and  night,  my  lady,  but  for  what  I 
cannot  find  out  yet." 

Lady  Clanvowe  smiled  a  little  grimly.  "You  saw  it, 
too,  then?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have,  my  lady,  and  ever  since  I  have  followed  in 
Grafton's  footsteps,  like  an  echo  upon  the  sound  of  a  call 
at  night." 

"What  is  it  he  fears,  do  you  think?" 

"  He  fears  this  land  of  stones  and  thorns,  and  the  peo 
ple  whose  speech  he  cannot  understand,  my  lady;  also  he 
fears  some  other  thing,  and  that  thing  is  what  I  search." 
The  Sikh's  dark  features  were  as  impassive  as  usual ;  but 
the  lips  were  just  now  ever  so  slightly  curled  back  from 
a  double  line  of  dazzling  teeth,  and  this  alone  sufficed  to 
give  the  whole  countenance  a  peculiarly  fierce  and  for 
bidding  expression. 

Lady  Clanvowe  turned  right  round  in  her  chair  and 
fixed  her  most  penetrating  gaze  upon  him. 

"Tell  me,  Jwala-Singh,"  she  quietly  asked  again,  "is  it 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

of  me,  or  of  something  he  fancies  I  might  do,  that  he  is 
afraid?" 

For  a  short  second  the  Hindu  did  not  answer;  and 
when  he  did  it  was  with  a  noticeable  emphasis. 

"Perhaps,  it  may  be  so,  my  lady." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  can  it  be?"  she  exclaimed,  her 
eyes  beginning  to  blaze.  "  What  can  suddenly  make  him 
so  outrageously  insolent?  Does  he  flatter  himself  that  I 
intend  to  put  up  with  such  behavior!" 

Jwala-Singh  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  heavy 
tapestry  folds  of  the  portiere  behind  him,  and  his  mis 
tress,  noticing  this,  lowered  her  voice. 

"He  would  not  dare  to  listen  at  the  door?"  she  whis 
pered,  angrily. 

One  of  Jwala-Singh's  rare  smiles  came  and  went  with — 
to  use  one  of  his  own  forms  of  speech — the  swiftness  of 
a  shadow  on  running  water ;  but  there  was  no  mirth  in  its 
fleeting. 

"  He  will  scarcely  listen  when  I  am  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door,"  he  explained,  "because  he  knows  what  very 
little,  little  sounds  I  can  hear,  but  otherwise —  He  left 
the  sentence  expressively  unfinished. 

"  It  is  intolerable!"  Lady  Clanvowe  cried,  rising  quickly, 
"and  I  am  going  to  send  him  back  to  England  this  very 
day — that  is  exactly  what  I  am  going  to  do,  Jwala-Singh 
.  .  .  and  more :  I  will  write  at  once  to  Sir  Hubert  and  tell 
him  why  I  have  done  so!" 

Jwala-Singh  did  not  move;  he  did  not  even  change  the 
direction  of  his  look,  and  yet  Rouanez  stopped  short  under 
the  weight  of  his  mute  disapproval. 

"Why  not?"  she  demanded,  as  if  he  had  spoken. 

"  I  cannot  speak  freely — I,  the  servant  of  my  lady,  and 
her  slave — of  things  too  high  for  such  as  I  am ;  but  as  I  hope 
to  be  considered  faithful,  no  such  step  should  be  taken." 

178 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"And  I  am  to  submit  to  being  spied  upon  and  lorded 
over?"  she  questioned,  quivering  with  suppressed  anger. 

The  Sikh  silently  inclined  his  head. 

Slowly  Lady  Clanvowe  sank  back  on  her  chair  without 
ceasing  to  question  him  with  her  eyes.  For  what  might 
have  been  perhaps  but  a  few  seconds,  though  to  both  of 
them  it  seemed  hours,  she  did  not  speak.  A  faint  light 
was  gradually  dawning  on  her  comprehension,  and  an 
ugly  light  she  found  it  likely  to  prove.  Jwala-Singh,  she 
knew,  was  what  one  could  truthfully  term  a  gentleman — 
during  years  she  had  been  enabled  to  put  his  blind  de 
votion  to  the  test;  he  was,  moreover,  the  only  creature 
save  Olier  from  whom  she  would  accept  advice  in  her 
present  isolation.  Why  not  force  him  to  speak  out  ?  Why 
not  take  his  counsel,  if  she  found  that  counsel  sound? 

"Jwala-Singh,"  she  said,  at  last,  "you  have  never  once 
failed  in  your  loyalty  to  me  and  Sir  Hubert,  and  I  want 
you  now  to  forget  all  ideas  of  distance  and  differences  of 
blood,  creed,  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  position.  I  want  you  to  speak 
to  me  as  if  I  were  of  your  own  people.  Do  you  under 
stand,  Jwala-Singh  ?" 

The  Hindu's  immobile  face  became  suddenly  expres 
sive,  as,  bending,  he  grasped  the  hem  of  her  dress,  touched 
it  gently  with  his  lips,  and  straightened  into  his  old  atti 
tude.  There  had  not  been  the  faintest  touch  of  servility 
in  the  spontaneous  homage. 

"  I  find  Grafton's  strange  attitude  all  the  more  embar 
rassing,  Jwala-Singh,"  she  began,  "because  I  am  unable 
to  explain  my  present  position.  Now,  if  you  can  throw 
any  light  upon  his  behavior,  be  it  ever  so  faint,  you  will 
do  me  the  greatest  possible  service.  Therefore,  you  must 
speak  frankly,  Jwala-Singh." 

The  Sikh's  intelligent  eyes  gave  evidence  of  a  thorough 
comprehension  of  her  meaning;  but  still  he  remained 

179 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

mute,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  trying  to  urge  him 
further,  when  he  held  up  one  slim  hand,  as  if  to  entreat 
her  to  be  patient  a  little  longer. 

"My  lady,"  he  said,  at  last,  "if  Grafton  is  sent  away 
his  dismissal  will  put  a  dark  look  upon  what  none  but 
himself  has  until  now  observed.  It  will  be  thought  that 
you,  my  lady,  do  not  desire  witnesses  of  what  you  do 
here." 

Having  made  up  his  mind  to  speak,  Jwala-Singh  spoke 
now  in  a  firm,  unfaltering  voice,  which  gave  the  words  a 
grave  meaning. 

"What  I  do  here?"  Rouanez  questioned,  with  a  sudden 
sinking  of  the  heart.  "How  do  you  mean  it?" 

"My  lady  knows  that  here  she  does  not  act  at  all  as 
she  does  when  at  the  Hall,  or  even  in  the  many  foreign 
places  where  Grafton  and  I  have  accompanied  her." 

"  Naturally  not,  since  I  am  here  taking  a  holiday,  in 
my  native  land,  and  free  to  do  just  what  "and  as  I  please, 
without  any  constraint." 

"Yes,  my  lady,  that  is  true  talk,  and  yet  it  does  not 
explain  many  things  that  appear  strange  to  one  of  Graf- 
ton's  small  thought." 

"Indeed!" 

"  Since  your  ladyship  wants  me  to  make  statement,  I 
must  warn  you,  my  lady,  of  Grafton  having  it  in  his 
mind  that  lately  your  ladyship  has  more  than  once  been 
absent  all  night  from  the  Fort." 

"  What  nonsense!"  Lady  Clanvowe  cried.  "  And  where 
does  he  suppose  me  to  go?"  She  spoke  nervously  now, 
for  the  truth  of  the  accusation  left  her  almost  defenceless, 
and  permitted — she  saw  that  in  a  flash — of  a  singularly 
unpleasant  interpretation. 

"  I  have  not  been  told  what  he  supposes,  happily  for  him; 
if  it  be  something  disrespectful — "  Jwala-Singh  resvimed 

1 80 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

in  the  same  calmly  even  tone:  "Neither  did  he  tell  me 
his  suspicion  concerning  my  lady's  absences  from  the 
Fort  at  night.  But  an  hour  or  so  before  sunrise  a  week 
ago  I  found  him  concealed  at  the  end  of  the  long  corridor 
leading  to  your  ladyship's  private  apartments,  watching, 
and  when  I  asked  him  what  he  was  doing  there  he  began 
to  stammer,  lost  courage,  and  told  me  he  feared  that  you, 
my  lady,  were  out  on  the  water,  adding  that  he  must 
find  means  to  put  a  stop  to  such  imprudences.  As  was 
my  place  to  do,  I  awed  him  into  returning  to  his  own 
room,  and  ever  since  then  I  have  scarce  let  him  out  of 
my  sight;  so  much  so,  that  peace  no  longer  reigns  be 
tween  us." 

Rouanez  was  cold  all  over  now.  What  a  situation! 
Hundreds,  thousands,  perhaps,  of  lives  were  at  the  mercy 
of  Grafton's  discretion,  or  else,  as  her  quick  wit  indicated, 
she  must  lead  him  to  believe  that  she,  Rouanez  de  Roz- 
kavel,  Lady  Clan vo we,  was  engaging  in  some  vulgar  in 
trigue,  leaving  her  home  at  the  dead  of  night  to  keep  a 
tryst  like  any  love-sick  chambermaid !  Even  if  in  defiance 
of  Jwala- Singh's  advice  she  sent  Graf  ton  home,  would  he 
consent  to  go,  she  wondered,  so  shaken  was  she  for  the 
moment  by  the  unanticipated  prospects  suddenly  unrolled 
before  her?  He  had  his  mission  to  heart;  he  considered 
himself  in  Sir  Hubert's  absence  her  natural  guardian. 

Then  her  normal  self  returned,  and  she  smiled  grimly. 
Oh  yes,  Graf  ton  would  go  if  she  wished  it!  But  what  if 
he  talked  to  Penruddock ;  what  if  he  wrote  to  Sir  Hubert 
himself,  and  the  letter  were,  as  doubtless  might  happen, 
intercepted?  Olier  had  warned  her  not  to  write  a  single 
compromising  word,  since  the  post-mistress  of  the  nearest 
town  through  which  the  mails  passed  was  known  to  be  a 
Government  spy.  Also,  how  much  had  Graf  ton  really 
discovered  ?  Had  he  perhaps  seen  her  creep  home  in  her 

181 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

paludiere  disguise — perhaps  even  followed  her  and  wit 
nessed  the  rapid  meetings  which  once  or  twice  had  taken 
place  for  hurried  councils  on  the  lande,  or  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliffs,  between  herself,  Keben  de  Kerhardec,  de  Laoual, 
Arzur,  Olier,  and  de  Masserac  ?  In  this  case  the  lover  ques 
tion  fell  before  a  far  more  terrible  one.  What  should  she 
do  to  find  out  how  she  now  stood  ?  Jwala  -  Singh  alone 
could  help  her ;  but  then  she  must  unreservedly  confide  in 
Jwala-Singh.  And  why  not?  She  knew  how  absolutely 
she  could  trust  him.  And  yes  ...  he  of  all  men  could 
understand  the  plight  of  her  Bretons  .  .  .  because  his  own 
people  had  been  conquered,  and  were  held  in  bonds,  that  if 
more  kindly  and  merciful,  yet  galled,  as  all  bonds  must  a 
proud  race.  He  could  hoodwink  Grafton — since  Grafton 
she  seemed  bound  to  keep  near  her,  after  all. 

"Listen,  Jwala-Singh,"  she  said,  with  swift  but  irre 
vocable  resolve,  "I  will  tell  you  the  truth  about  all  this, 
now  and  at  once." 

Jwala-Singh  once  again  raised  a  warning  hand.  "  Not 
now  and  at  once,  if  it  please  my  lady.  I  have  dwelt  here 
the  half  of  an  hour  already,  and  Grafton  must  not  suspect 
that  I  am  to  be  honored  by  confidences  in  which  he  has 
no  part.  Let  my  lady  go  out  riding  after  tiffin  along  the 
path  of  pink  flowers  (the  path  across  the  heather),  and  I 
will  await  her  horse's  hoof-beats  near  the  old  powder- 
tower  on  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  There  we  can  talk; 
not  here." 

Rouanez  brought  her  square  little  teeth  together  with 
a  click;  her  delicate  nostrils  were  quivering  like  those  of 
a  mettlesome  horse  who  feels  the  curb.  There  was  so 
much  wisdom  in  the  Hindu's  words  that  she  was  longing 
to  strangle  Grafton,  and  once  left  alone  she  gave  way  to 
one  of  the  rare  fits  of  rage  which  were  the  pitfall  and 
snare  of  her  well-governed  nature — a  fit  of  rage  which 

182 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

left  her  white  and  trembling;  and  firmly  resolved  also  to 
hurry  the  completion  of  the  plot  as  much  as  it  could  be 
hurried.  The  situation  was  no  longer  tenable. 

An  hour  later  she  had  to  force  herself  to  eat  a  few  morsels 
under  Grafton's  tutelary  gaze,  and  that  small  effort  cost 
her  almost  more  than  in  her  present  mood  she  could  com 
pass.  She  was  beginning  actually  to  hate  that  pink  of 
respectability,  and  Rouanez's  hatred  was  no  lukewarm 
thing;  but  she  managed  to  maintain  an  outward  com 
posure,  and  cutting  the  unwelcome  meal  as  short  as  pos 
sible,  she  slipped  into  her  habit  and  rode  off  at  a  tearing 
gallop  in  a  direction  precisely  opposite  to  the  old  Pou- 
driere. 

The  spot  selected  by  Jwala-Singh  for  the  rendezvous 
was  as  safe  from  surprise  as  any  spot  on  earth  could  well 
be,  for  from  that  high  elevation,  mile  upon  mile  of  coast, 
naked  of  any  cover  that  could  possibly  conceal  an  ap 
proach — a  vast  stretch  of  land  and  sea — could  easily  be 
scanned.  The  dismantled  and  now  roofless  powder-tower 
rose  from  the  sheer  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  occupied  a  point 
of  rock,  beneath  one  side  of  which  the  narrow  shingle 
beach  ran  back  toward  Rozkavel;  while  immediately  be 
neath  the  other  raged  the  frightful  "Hell  of  Plogonak," 
where  they  say  the  souls  of  sailors  and  fishermen  who 
have  died  impenitent  are  churned  all  day  long,  and  are 
cast  at  night,  panting,  bruised,  and  battered,  upon  the 
jagged  lip  of  the  precipice,  to  lie  in  an  inextricable  tangle, 
moaning  and  crying  aloud  for  mercy.  After  sundown  no 
native  of  that  region  is  bold  enough  to  approach  within 
a  league  of  the  promontory,  and  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
the  wild  clamor  which — especially  during  the  dark  hours 
— rises  there,  low  or  loud,  according  to  the  shifting  of  the 
wind,  is  of  a  nature  to  justify  the  belief  concerning  it. 

Jwala-Singh,  waiting  for  his  mistress,  was  standing  at 

183 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  foot  of  the  crumbling  tower- wall,  and  after  a  little  he 
crossed  the  yard-wide  path  encircling  it  and  bent  over  the 
brink  of  Plogonak.  The  rock  beneath  dropped  away  in 
a  great  funnel  to  a  smooth,  round  well  that  pierced  to  un 
known  depths  and  communicated  with  the  inmost  arteries 
of  the  ocean.  Toward  the  sea  one  side  of  the  funnel  was 
broken  away  to  within  a  few  feet  of  low-water  mark,  so 
that  when  the  tide  rose  it  flooded  in,  and  the  two  cur 
rents,  surface  and  submarine,  fought  with  ghastly,  roar 
ing,  sucking  noises.  But  it  was  when  the  tide  was  out — 
and  it  was  out  now — that  the  Hell  of  Plogonak  most  de 
served  its  name,  for  when  the  sea  retreated  from  the 
broad  lip  of  the  well,  in  that  sleek,  black  gorge,  the  dark 
water,  running  oilily  round  and  round,  rose  and  fell  at 
almost  regular  intervals,  as  if  in  answer  to  some  horrible 
pulsation.  Again  and  again  a  soft,  resistless  heave  lifted 
the  grayish  foam-fringes  encircling  the  fluid  column  nearly 
to  the  top,  and  then  with  a  throaty  gulp  it  sank  swiftly, 
down,  down,  down,  in  dizzy  corkscrew  rings,  streaked  and 
lashed  with  bands  of  wicked  green.  A  raw,  dank  air,  as 
of  lifeless  abysses,  rose  from  below,  and  beneath  his  feet 
Jwala-Singh  felt  the  quiverings  of  the  solid  cliff. 

"It  is,  indeed,  the  Devil's  throat,"  he  murmured,  draw 
ing  off  to  the  place  he  had  occupied  before,  and  a  Devil's 
throat  it  seemed  to  be,  with  those  gasping  regurgitations 
and  sudden  slimy  swallowings  —  a  hideously  convulsed 
throat,  choked  with  foam  and  froth  and  incessant  tur 
moil. 

Just  then,  however,  the  Hindu's  quick  ear  caught  an 
other  sound,  that  of  hoofs  swiftly  approaching  over  the 
elastic  heath,  and,  quitting  the  shadow  of  the  tower,  he 
advanced  in  the  golden  afternoon  sunlight  at  the  precise 
instant  when  Rouanez  reined  in  Sacripant. 

She  did  not  speak,  but  jumped  from  her  saddle,  and 

184 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

leaving  him  to  fasten  the  emergency  bridle-strap  to  an 
iron  ring  in  the  inner  tower  wall,  sat  down  on  a  flat  stone 
with  her  back  toward  the  grumbling  precipice.  Her  face 
was  pale  and  set  with  the  anger  she  had  not  yet  succeeded 
in  subduing. 

"Here  we  are  safe,"  the  Sikh  said,  emerging  from  the 
tower  and  taking  his  stand  before  her.  "You  can  talk 
now,  my  lady,  to  your  servant." 

But  Rouanez  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  begin,  and  for  some 
time  she  remained  motionless,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  dis 
tant  dip  in  the  capricious  cliff-line,  where  the  square, 
pink  tower  of  Fort  Rozkavel  could  still  be  distinguished. 
At  last  she  breathed  an  impatient  sigh  and  turned  to  her 
companion.  Slowly,  but  without  once  pausing,  she  gave 
her  attentive  hearer  a  short  history  of  Brittany's  troubles, 
ending  in  a  clear  and  concise  expose"  of  her  plan  to  remedy 
the  evils  from  which  her  land  and  her  people  suffered. 

"And  so,"  she  concluded,  in  Urdu,  for  she  had  lived 
in  India  for  several  years,  and  the  narration,  beginning 
in  English,  had  dropped  unconsciously  into  the  native 
speech,  "and  so  this  is  the  sum  of  the  matter.  We  are 
a  small  people,  but  we  have  been  a  people  from  the  be 
ginning  of  time,  and  would  fain  keep  to  the  ways  and 
customs  of  our  forefathers.  You  of  the  Khalsa  should 
understand  this  thing." 

"I  do,  indeed,  understand,"  he  replied,  gravely,  in  the 
same  tongue,  "and  it  is  a  good  cause;  for  it  is  good  to 
maintain  old  customs,  and  it  is  not  meet  that  the  base- 
born  should  be  the  masters.  But" — and  he  salaamed 
superbly — "it  needed  not  that  my  lady  should  have  told 
these  matters.  Am  I  not  her  servant  to  do  her  bidding? 
Have  I  not  eaten  of  her  bread  and  dwelt  in  her  shadow 
these  many  years?  There  is  no  more  to  say." 

Rouanez  rose  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "Thank  you, 

185 


Jwala-Singh,"  she  said,  simply.  "I  expected  nothing 
less  from  you." 

She  turned  toward  the  Infern,  and,  walking  slowly  to 
the  dizzy  rim,  stood  gazing  down  into  the  gulping  well, 
her  slim  form  swaying  slightly  in  the  strong  wind.  In 
two  steps  Jwala-Singh  was  beside  her  and  caught  her 
arm,  as  once  Olier  had  done  on  the  top  of  the  sand-bluff 
near  Rozkavel. 

"I  am  not  troubled  with  vertigo,"  she  said,  smiling 
for  the  first  time.  "But  it  is  an  ugly  place,  is  it  not?" 

"A  good  burial-place  for  enemies,"  the  Sikh  murmured, 
his  glittering  eyes  following  the  ceaseless  motion  of  the 
water;  and  unconsciously  quoting  Hanvec,  he  added: 
"It  must  not  easily  give  up  its  dead." 

"They  say  it  does — after  a  while,"  she  replied,  stepping 
back  upon  the  path;  "but  they  say  so  many  things  about 
it." 

A  little  color  had  returned  to  her  white  face,  and  her 
expression  was  more  calm  and  controlled  as  she  re 
mounted  and,  nodding  to  her  stately  retainer,  cantered 
away,  leaving  him  there  gazing  after  her  with  eyes  lighted 
by  unswerving  devotion  and  loyalty. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Indeed  you  spoke  no  word,  and  your  true  eyes 

Told  but  of  laughter  and  of  kindly  things; 
Clear  Honor  wore  you  for  a  poor  disguise, 

And  Simpleness,  and  all  she  with  her  brings. 
I  had  not  thought  to  sue;    I  saw  you  only 

As  might  a  boatman  on  a  midnight  mere, 
See  on  the  velvet  surface,  black  and  lonely, 

A  friendly  planet  stooped,  and  floating  near. 
But  as  a  bell  sharp-smitten  doth  awake 

Her  kindred  metal  dreaming  in  the  spire, 
Bronze  answering  murmurous  bronze  until  they  make 

Sweetest  accord  as  of  an  heavenly  choir, 
So,  though  I  dreamed  I  heard  your  bitter  cry, 
My  soul  stood  forth  and  answered,  "  Here  am  I." 

Hidden  Accord. — M.  M. 

OLIER  and  Rouanez  were  taking  after-dinner  coffee  on 
the  balcony  in  the  lilac-and-amber  light  of  an  astonishing 
sunset.  The  day  had  been  warm  for  Brittany,  where  in 
tense  heat  and  intense  cold  are  alike  unknown,  and  the 
little  aerial  terrace,  with  its  half-raised  awning  of  white 
and  pink,  its  comfortably  cushioned  cane  furniture,  and 
the  great  clusters  of  roses  filling  its  green-bronze  jardi 
nieres,  looked  invitingly  fresh  and  pleasant. 

"How  you  will  hate  leaving  all  this!"  Olier  said,  ab 
ruptly,  sweeping  one  hand  comprehensively  in  front  of 
him,  and  Rouanez,  who  had  been  absent-mindedly  pluck 
ing  the  fragile  petals  from  the  big  rose-bowl  on  the  little 
table  before  her,  stared  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Why  should  I  leave  it  all?"  she  asked,  resuming  her 
occupation  with  quickened  fingers. 

187 


THE    CRADLE    OF   THE    ROSE 

"Because  whichever  way  the  cat  jumps,  you  will  not, 
I  fancy,  be  able  to  continue  living  here." 

"Your  mode  of  expressing  yourself  is  of  an  elegance 
which  paralyzes  one's  power  of  repartee,"  she  commented. 
"But  I  must  nevertheless  assure  you  that  the  cat's  antics 
will  in  all  human  probability  have  scant  influence  on  my 
possession  of  Fort  Rozkavel,  since  in  any  case  it  will  re 
main  for  me  the  real  Cradle  of  the  Rose." 

"It's  pink  enough  for  that,  at  any  rate,"  he  said,  al 
most  irritably. 

"So  is  this,"  she  countered,  suddenly  dashing  a  hand 
ful  of  petals  at  him,  so  that  for  a  moment  he  was  blinded 
by  the  fragrant  shower.  "  You  are  in  an  ungracious  mood 
to-night,  it  would  appear." 

He  laughed  a  curious,  constrained  laugh,  and  slowly 
began  to  gather  the  strewn  flower-silk  from  the  table-edge 
without  speaking. 

"What  ails  you?"  Rouanez  impatiently  interrogated. 
"Have  you  received  bad  news?" 

"No,  not  in  the  least.  That's  a  queer  chain  you  are 
wearing.  I  never  saw  anything  like  those  parti-colored 
stones." 

"Parti-colored  nonsense!"  she  exclaimed,  slipping  the 
long,  glittering  sautoir  from  her  neck  and  holding  it  out 
to  him.  "These  are  kunzites,  my  eager  searcher  after 
knowledge — given  to  me  in  America  by  a  very  charming 
savant,  and  those,"  she  added,  pointing  mischievously  at 
the  intervening  brilliants,  "are  the  ordinary  diamonds 
of  commerce." 

"Really!  You  surprise  me!"  he  replied,  vainly  trying 
to  enter  into  her  mood.  "  Kunzites  .  .  .  well,  they  are 
parti-colored — rose-shot  lilac  at  the  edges,  rose  in  the 
middle,  but  altogether  exquisite,  and  strikingly  original." 

"  Have  it  your  own  way.  I'd  have  been  simpler  of  de- 

iSS 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

scription  myself,  and  called  them  crystallized  chatoyancy. 
But  since  you  wish  it,  let  them  by  all  means  be  parti 
colored." 

"'Crystallized  chatoyancy'  is  certainly  extremely  sim 
ple  and  unadorned  language,"  he  remarked,  handing  the 
chain  back  to  her.  "Will  you  accept  a  cigarette  in  re 
turn  for  your  kindly  information?" 

"Yes,  on  condition  that  you  leave  off  contradicting  for 
a  full  hour.  The  habit  is  gaining  on  you,  Olier,  and  it 
would  be  wise  on  your  part  to  grapple  with  the  evil 
before  its  roots  have  gone  too  deep  for  painless  extrac 
tion." 

"I  will  endeavor  to  follow  your  most  excellent  advice," 
he  gravely  retorted,  rising  to  light  her  cigarette. 

"While  you  are  on  your  feet,  would  you  mind  shutting 
those  windows,"  she  said,  glancing  behind  her.  "I  have 
particular  reasons  for  seeking  strict  seclusion  to-night." 

"More  so  than  ordinarily?"  he  questioned,  obeying  or 
ders  with  his  customary  alacrity. 

"  Considerably  more  so.  And  oh !  while  you  are  about 
it,  pick  up  that  wonderful  warming-pan  and  lean  the 
handle  against  the  fastening  of  the  farthest  window,  so 
that  it  will  fall  with  a  clatter  if  the  fastening  is  touched." 

Olier  swung  round  in  bewilderment. 

"Warming-pan  .  .  .  window  .  .  .  fastening  .  .  .  clatter  ..." 
he  said,  helplessly.  "What  are  you  talking  about?" 

She  gave  one  of  her  old  merry  laughs  and,  getting  up, 
walked  toward  him. 

"  Don't  you  see  there  in  the  corner  that  guitarry-looking 
brass  instrument?  It's  a  genuine  Louis  XIV.  warming- 
pan  I  bought  from  a  farmer  a  few  days  ago;  a  bona-fide 
antique,  which  gives  it  a  clear  title  to  help  our  cause. 
Here,  let  me  show  you." 

She  bent,  picked  up  the  shining  object,  and,  adjusting 

189 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

its  long  ebony  handle  in  the  round  loop  of  the  window- 
bolt,  smiled  triumphantly  up  at  him. 

"But  that's  a 'monk'  . .  .  a  good,  old-fashioned 'monk'!" 
Olier  exclaimed,  with  recaptured  lightness.  "Lord,  how 
I  used  to  laugh  at  my  grandmother's  story  about  a  similar 
homely  utensil." 

"Tell  me,"  Rouanez  commanded.  "We  are  both  bad 
ly  in  need  of  a  laugh." 

"Oh!  It's  a  silly  yarn.  You  know  the  grandparents 
used  to  receive  a  good  deal  during  the  hunting  season. 
Also  they  were  exceedingly  pious  people,  especially  Grand 
mamma." 

"  I  remember  her.  What  a  beautiful  antiquity  she  her 
self  became,  with  her  perfect  features  and  tall,  slender  fig 
ure!  Go  on,  Olier." 

"Of  course  the  wandering  religious  were  always  greeted 
enthusiastically  at  Kremarze',  and  made  much  of,  until 
one  fine  autumn  night — or  rather  a  very  cold  and  rainy 
one,  to  be  correct,  when  the  house  was  full  of  guests.  My 
grandmother  had  shortly  before  brought  a  new  maid  from 
distant  parts,  where  she  had  been  visiting  friends,  and 
soon  after  dinner  she  sent  for  the  girl  in  question,  and 
said:  'It  is  so  raw  this  evening  that  I  wish  you  would 
personally  see  that  the  monk  is  passed  through  all  the 
beds,  so  that  the  sheets  will  not  be  too  cold.'  An  hour 
later  Grandmamma  caught  sight  of  her  maid  standing 
within  a  little  side  door  and  signalling  desperately  to 
her.  'What  is  it,  Celine?'  she  asked,  hurrying  across  the 
room  toward  the  distressed  damsel.  '  Is  anything  amiss  ?' 
'Oh  yes,  Madame  la  Comtesse,'  she  sobbed,  the  monk 
refuses  to  get  into  any  more  beds  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  he  has 
excommunicated  me  for  .  .  .  playing  pranks  upon  him!' 
'Monk?  What  monk?'  Grandmamma  gasped.  'Are  you 
crazy,  girl?'  And  then  little  by  little  she  drew  from 

190 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

her  the  story  of  how  a  begging  monk  who  had  sought 
refuge  from  the  storm,  and  had  been  served  dinner  in  a 
small  refectory  opening  from  the  kitchen,  had  been  con 
ducted  'by  orders  of  Madame  la  Comtesse,'  to  that  high 
and  mighty  chatelaine's  own  room,  and  a  dainty  couch, 
all  lace  and  satin.  He  was  not  surprised,  it  seemed,  at 
being  routed  out  of  this  ten  minutes  later,  for,  as  he  told 
Celine,  he  had  thought  at  the  time  that  she  was  making 
a  mistake.  But  he  began  to  be  annoyed  when  the  same 
thing  happened  again,  and  finally,  when  he  had  just  suc 
ceeded  in  dozing  comfortably  off  in  the  last  of  seven  suc 
cessive  beds,  only  to  find  that  his  travels  were  not  yet 
done,  the  remnants  of  his  temper  broke  into  bits,  and  the 
thunders  of  the  Church  descended  upon  poor  Celine." 

Rouanez  was  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 

"Dear  me!"  she  cried.  "I  am  glad  I  bought  that 
warming-pan.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  that  story  .  .  . 
But  how  did  your  grandmother  pacify  the  '  brown 
robe'?" 

"  With  difficulty,  I  believe.  The  rooms  were  not  heated 
at  Kremarze  then,  and  he  had  not  enjoyed  the  experience. 
Indeed,  I  think  that  no  other  member  of  his  particular 
confrtrie  ever  passed  our  doors  again,  much  to  Grand 
mamma's  grief;  although  she  never  could  speak  of  the 
event  without  making  herself  ill  with  laughing." 

"I  sympathize  with  your  grandmother,"  Rouanez  de 
clared.  "And  yet  nothing  is  so  wholesome  and  invigorat 
ing  as  a  real  bona-fide  laugh.  My  doctors  tell  me  that  it 
is  better  for  any  ailment  than  a  pint  of  medicine.  Indeed, 
this  little  intermezzo  has  given  me  strength  to  proceed  to 
business  now.  I  was  really  feeling  absolutely  averse  to 
it  this  evening.  So  draw  up  your  chair;  I  have  some 
thing  to  tell  you."  And  in  a  lowered  voice  she  communi 
cated  to  him  her  discoveries  with  regard  to  Graf  ton,  and 

191 


THE   CRADLE   OP   THE    ROSE 

her  subsequent  talk  with  Jwala-Singh,  a  little  modified 
in  one  portion  only. 

"Have  I  done  right?"  she  asked,  in  conclusion.  "It 
seemed  the  safest  way.  But  perhaps  you  won't  think 
so?" 

"You  have  done  perfectly  right,  as  usual,"  he  replied. 
"  Personally  I  have  a  real  esteem  for  Jwala-Singh.  And 
as  to  Graf  ton,  the  strangest  thing  about  his  performances 
is  that  he  is  acting — or  so  it  seems  to  me — from  an  exag 
gerated  sense  of  duty  and  loyalty.  Poor  old  idiot!  It 
is  a  nuisance  one  can't  spirit  him  away,  nevertheless." 

"The  result  of  all  this,  Olier,  is  that  we  must  hasten 
the  end  as  much  as  we  can.  What  remained  of  my  peace 
of  mind  is  gone,  and,"  she  added,  with  a  queer  little  break 
in  her  voice,  "I  hate  being  watched.  The  idea  that  this 
'old  idiot'  has  his  eye  or  his  ear  glued  to  every  key-hole 
in  turn  drives  me  wild.  It  frightens  me  more  than  twenty 
gun-muzzles  pointed  straight  at  me  would  do." 

"I  understand  that.  But,  Lady  Clanvowe,  you  must 
conquer  the  feeling  for  a  little  while  longer  .  .  .  you  really 
must!" 

He  began  the  sentence  calmly  enough,  but  toward  the 
end  his  voice  struck  a  strange  note  of  harshness  wholly 
foreign  to  the  words.  Then  rising  suddenly,  he  walked 
to  the  balustrade  of  the  balcony  and  stood  gazing  at  the 
now  brilliantly  moonlit  waves  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"I  wish  to  God,"  he  said,  fiercely,  "that  I  had  never 
let  you  embark  on  this  scheme!  What  matters  the  hap 
piness  of  all  the  rest?" 

She,  too,  had  risen,  and,  joining  him,  she  glanced  at  his 
set,  white  face. 

"Why,  Olier!"  she  remonstrated;  "it  is  not  like  you  to 
talk  like  that!" 

He  had  turned  away,  and  anxious  to  discover  what 

192 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

vexed  him,  she  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  to  draw  him 
around ;  but  at  the  touch  he  started  violently,  and  grasp 
ing  her  slender  wrist  with  fingers  cold  as  ice,  he  positively 
flung  her  hand  from  him. 

"  Leave  me  alone!"  he  said,  roughly,  and  the  autocratic, 
self-willed  woman,  accustomed  all  her  life  to  the  utmost 
deference,  and  splendidly  able  to  compel  it  always,  felt 
no  anger,  but  a  sudden  pang  of  dismay  clutching  at  her 
heart. 

"I  have  done  a  pretty  piece  of  work!"  she  thought,  like 
a  flash.  "God!  What  can  I  say  now  to  help  him  out?" 
And  her  little  mocking  laugh  was  somehow  misleading 
enough  to  save  the  situation,  as  she  dropped  him  a  low 
courtesy.  "When  Monseigneur  has  recovered  his  tem 
per,"  she  gayly  pronounced,  "we  will  resume  our  argu 
ment." 

Had  he  looked  at  her  then  he  would  have  seen  that  she 
was  of  an  absolute  pallor,  but  her  brave,  blue  eyes  did 
not  flinch. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Clanvowe,"  he  stammered, 
with  pitiable  shamefacedness.  "I  cannot  imagine  what 
made  me  act  with  such  abominable  rudeness." 

"I  can,"  she  said,  quietly.  "We  have  all  of  us  racked 
our  nerves  past  endurance  lately,  and  this  last  contre 
temps,  coming  on  the  top  of  the  rest,  is  enough  to  make 
anybody  angry.  Besides,  between  comrades-at-arms  one 
must  not  be  too  touchy." 

In  her  heart  she  was  passionately  praying  that  he  would 
go  away  and  give  her  time  to  readjust  her  thoughts.  Fort 
unately  for  her,  a  similar  desire  on  his  part  made  him 
equally  anxious  to  be  alone,  and  with  the  help  of  her  grace 
ful  raillery  anent  what  she  dubbed  "his  unbearable  boor- 
ishness  to-night,"  he  managed  to  shorten  by  an  hour  his 
usual  after-dinner  lingerings,  without,  as  he  fondly  hoped, 

13  I93 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

arousing  her  suspicions,  and  left  her  waving  him  a  smiling 
"  Au  revoir — a  demain!"  from  her  rose-garlanded  balcony. 

Hardly  had  he  disappeared  than  the  mask  fell  from 
her  suddenly  drawn  and  haggard  features.  "A  pretty 
piece  of  work  ...  a  pretty  piece  of  work!"  she  repeated, 
again  and  again  to  herself,  pacing  back  and  forth  like  a 
caged  animal,  her  hands  clinched  at  her  sides.  "And  an 
old  hag  like  me,  too!  I,  who  never,  never  for  a  second 
dreamed  such  a  thing  possible."  She  paused,  looked 
around  her  from  the  starry-blue  vault  curving  about  the 
ocean-rim  to  the  scattered  leaves  at  her  feet — those  same 
delicate  petals  she  had  mischievously  pelted  him  with — 
and  then  rushed  across  the  flagged  flooring  to  the  fur 
thest  window,  which  she  wrenched  open,  displacing  the 
guardian  warming-pan  with  a  deafening  clatter,  and  fair 
ly  ran  through  the  softly  lighted  "den"  to  her  dressing- 
room,  where  on  the  broad,  lace -shrouded  toilet -table  a 
tall  lamp  burned  brightly. 

There,  sitting  in  front  of  the  faithful  clearness  of  her 
mirror,  she  bent  forward,  her  chin  in  her  palms,  and 
stared  angrily  at  herself  until  her  eyes  ached  and  slowly 
filled  with  tears.  One  by  one  the  big  drops  glided  down, 
falling  with  tiny  splashes  on  the  perfume-boxes  and  gold- 
backed  hair-brushes,  and  through  their  crystal  shine  she 
still  tried  to  pick  herself  to  pieces.  "An  old  woman!  An 
old  woman!"  she  whispered,  wearily.  "But  what  am  I 
doing  here — taking  mental  notes  so  as  to  be  able  to  write 
my  own  passports?"  Her  unconquerable  bent  toward 
self-mockery  was  as  keen  as  ever.  "I  can't  even  see  my 
self  any  more,  and  it  would  read  as  they  all  do:  'Round 
face,  round  chin,  medium  nose,  medium  forehead — medium 
everything  else!'  "  She  flung  out  of  her  chair,  and  returned 
to  the  balcony,  drying  her  angry  tears  with  her  small 
fists,  as  babies  do. 

194 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

After  a  while  she  grew  calm  enough  to  resume  her  great 
arm-chair  and  review  the  past  weeks  with  something  like 
method  and  order,  but  seek  as  she  would  she  could  not 
discover  a  single  act  on  Olier's  part — a  look  or  a  word — 
that  might  have  served  her  as  a  warning.  Of  course  the 
boy  had  been  attentive  to  her  wishes,  he  had  shown  pleas 
ure  in  being  with  her,  and  had  danced  pretty  constant 
attendance;  but  every  man  she  had  ever  met  had  done 
that  more  or  less.  She  was  used  to  it.  Why,  even  in  her 
servants  she  had  always  been  aware  of  something  that 
strongly  resembled  involuntary  homage,  and  her  sailors 
obviously  adored  her,  and  vied  with  each  other  in  "jump 
ing  extra  lively"  when  she  spoke.  How  could  she  have 
noticed  the  difference  with  this  calm,  self-possessed  boy, 
who  had  never  permitted  himself  even  a  gesture  of  ex 
cessive  empressement  ?  She  was  not  to  blame.  That  she 
was  forced  to  admit.  But  what  mattered  it  since  the 
evil  was  done?  And  what  evil!  Had  she  not  been  so 
sincerely  attached  to  him,  perhaps  her  present  grief  would 
have  been  lessened.  A  surpassingly  lovely  woman,  an 
irresistible  charmeuse  like  her,  does  not  go  through  life 
without  damaging  many  hearts — and  knowing  that  it  is 
so,  becoming  resigned  to  the  inevitable.  But  he  was  dif 
ferent.  He  was  all  alone  in  the  world,  and  so  pathetically 
young  and  whole-hearted.  He  had  given  up  his  beloved 
career,  and  now  with  his  grand  old  name  and  no  money — • 
or  very  little  of  that,  at  least — his  empty  life  and  impos 
sible  love,  what  would  become  of  him  ? 

If  the  insurrection  which  he  and  she  had  brought  about 
succeeded,  would  the  greatest  honors  —  a  place  at  the 
King's  side  even — console  such  a  nature  as  his  ?  And  if  it 
failed?  She  in  any  case  must  disappear.  Lady  Clan- 
vowe,  the  wife  of  a  British  Ambassador — for  that  dis 
tinction  was  to  follow  closely  upon  Sir  Hubert's  return, 


THE    CRADLE    OF   THE    ROSE 

as  she  knew — had  no  title  to  a  tabouret  at  the  Court  of 
France,  even  should  that  Court,  owing  to  her,  be  reborn 
from  dead  ashes.  And  again,  if  failure  rewarded  their 
efforts?  It  was  maddening  to  so  much  as  think  of  that 
alternative,  and  Rouanez,  as  Olier  had  done  earlier,  gazed 
at  the  dark,  silvered  waves  without  in  the  least  per 
ceiving  that  they  were  dancing  and  singing  musically 
there  below. 

One  thing  was  certain.  She  must  never  let  him  guess 
that  she  knew  his  secret.  They  were  bound  to  spend  the 
next  weeks  together  almost  constantly — there  was  no 
help  for  that.  And  so  it  would  be  the  duty  of  every 
minute  to  avoid  this  of  all  other  dangers. 

She  rose  with  a  weary  sigh,  and  shivered  in  the  cool 
breeze  preceding  dawn.  Then  slowly,  with  the  dragging 
step  of  utter  exhaustion,  she  went  to  her  room.  More 
slowly  yet  she  undressed,  and  drew  out  one  by  one  the 
shell  forks  from  her  hair,  until  the  long  braids  slipped 
down  over  her  pale-blue  peignoir.  Still  lost  in  heavy 
thought,  she  loosened  first  one  braid  and  then  the  other, 
and  shook  out  the  royal  ermine  mantle  that  fell  far  below 
her  knees,  lustrous  and  shining,  almost  luminous.  Then 
with  a  sudden  sob  she  threw  herself  across  the  foot  of  her 
bed,  and  burying  her  face  in  the  perfumed  silky  mass,  lay 
quite  still  and  sleepless  until  sunrise. 

Olier,  too,  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  He  had 
driven  his  dog-cart  home  at  break-neck  speed,  only  to 
find  that  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  the  hours  left 
to  him  before  it  would  be  time  to  resume  his  daily  routine. 
He  was  shaken  by  a  furious  anger  against  himself,  as  he 
quickly  paced  up  and  down  the  dim  garden  walks  all  gray 
with  dew,  and  it  was  only  when  dawn  began  to  show  a 
rosy  gleam  through  the  interlaced  branches  of  the  sur 
rounding  trees  that  sheer  fatigue  made  him  pause.  Still 

196 


A     CORXKR    OF    THE     MAXOIR    OF     KRKMARZK 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

he  did  not  feel  like  going  in-doors,  and  after  some  more 
aimless  loitering  sat  down  on  the  curb  of  the  old  verdure- 
smothered  well  in  the  north  parterre  to  resume  his  stormy 
meditations. 

Never  until  that  evening  had  he  clearly  realized  that 
he  loved  Lady  Clanvowe,  for  her  elder-sister  —  almost 
motherly  —  attitude  toward  him  had  deceived  him  into 
believing  that  his  own  feelings,  if  never  filial,  were 
brotherly  —  although  now  the  idea  made  him  laugh 
suddenly,  in  a  way  which  it  was  not  good  to  hear.  He 
cudgelled  his  tired  brain  to  reconstruct  the  wretched 
scene  on  the  balcony,  hoping  against  hope  that  she  had 
given  no  serious  importance  to  his  unexplainable  conduct. 
Unexplainable  ?  A  cold  shiver  ran  between  his  shoulders. 
Too  easily  explained,  alas,  if  she  used  only  half  her  ordi 
nary  shrewdness;  in  which  case  he,  Olier  de  Frehe'l,  had 
proved  himself  unworthy  of  her  perfect  trust,  of  her  de 
licious  tone  of  affectionate  camaraderie;  unworthy  even  of 
remaining  her  friend  and  "lieutenant,"  as  he  had  been  so 
proud  to  term  himself. 

But  surely  if  she  had  put  the  true  meaning  on  his  brutal 
outbreak,  she  could  not  have  joked  him  about  it  as  she 
did — even  she  could  not  possess  such  mastery  over  her 
self;  for  he  knew  how  intolerant  she  was  of  what  she  once 
or  twice  had  contemptuously  alluded  to  as  "the  passions." 
To  this  well-poised,  wholesome-minded  woman,  no  man 
in  his  senses  would  dare,  he  reflected  bitterly,  to  make 
such  an  expos6  of  his  feelings  as  he  had  been  on  the  verge 
of  doing.  And  yet  his  love  for  her  was  pure  and  lofty, 
if  ever  love  was.  But  even  if  it  were  so  she  was  unap 
proachable,  and  usually  so  impulsive  that  a  mere  hint  in 
that  direction  would,  he  firmly  believed,  have  been  enough 
to  make  her  dismiss  him  from  her  presence  as  she  would  an 
insolent  lackey. 

197 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Perhaps  then — perhaps  there  was  a  chance  that,  wrought 
up  by  their  previous  discussion,  she  had  really  ascribed 
the  miserable  incident  to  an  ill-bred  but  nevertheless  par 
donable  fit  of  temper.  Anyhow,  he  would  soon  know,  for 
the  exigencies  of  their  great  undertaking  forbade  his  keep 
ing  away,  had  not  the  most  ordinary  common-sense  dic 
tated — until  further  enlightenment  at  least — the  abso 
lute  necessity  of  making  no  change  in  his  manner  of 
coming  and  going  at  Rozkavel. 

He  saw  suddenly,  too,  why  Arzur's  outspoken  admira 
tion  for  Rouanez  had  galled  him  past  endurance;  why 
he  had  always  so  carefully  avoided  glancing  at  Sir  Hu 
bert's  photograph  on  her  desk;  why  even  his  old  friends, 
de  Masserac  and  Kerhardec,  had  become  obnoxious  to 
him.  Jealous?  Oh  yes;  he  was  jealous  of  every  being 
and  object  upon  which  her  eyes  rested  for  a  moment 
kindly! 

He  rose  brusquely,  and  a  few  faded  rose-petals  fluttered 
from  within  his  sleeve,  where  they  had  dropped  when  she 
flung  her  two  little  fistfuls  at  him,  and  fell  on  the  gravel 
at  his  feet,  reminding  him  once  more  of  the  exquisite  hours 
they  had  spent  together.  He  bent,  gathered  them  up 
tenderly,  and  holding  them  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  ran 
up  to  his  room,  where  he  spent  half  an  hour  placing  them 
to  his  satisfaction  in  a  little,  old,  rock-crystal  locket  he  had 
worn  in  nursery  days;  then  slipping  the  thin  gold  chain 
round  his  neck,  he  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  still  gazing  at 
the  childish  trinket  with  suddenly  child-like  eyes,  and  fell 
without  knowing  it  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XV 

The  cellar-stock,  though  lacking  in  the  signs 

Of  cultured  choice,  could  make  the  rustic  glad 
And  something  over;    two  rough  country  wines, 

"P'tit  bleu"  and  "p'tit  vin  blanc,"  were  to  be  had, 

And  fiery  "calvados,"  the  spirits  bad 
Off  dissolute  potatoes;    but  indeed 

Their  cider  was  clear  nectar,  oversprad 
With  lightest  froth,  begot  of  many  a  bead 
Sprinkling  from  depths  more  fragrant  than  a  clover  mead. 

Here  of  an  evening  if  you  knew  their  speech 

From  big,  grave,  red-haired  fellows  you  could  hear 

(Saboted,  Chouan-hatted,  broad  of  breech) 
How  went  the  salt-crop  in  the  marshes  near, 
If  the  sardines  had  failed,  and  how  the  year 

Promised  of  harvest.     While  they  drank  amain 
All  were  on  good  behavior,  under  fear 

Of  stalwart  escort — or  if  need  be,  twain — 

To  brawl  at  large,  or  slumber  in  the  moonlit  lane. 

The  hostess  helped  her  lord  to  make  them  go 
(A  strapping  man  to  lift  four  hundred- weight) ; 

Not  ill  of  face  or  figure  she,  although 

A  fine  moustache  had  come  to  her  of  late, 
Suiting  her  thews  of  Anak;    but  that  Fate 

Had  given  them  one  only  child  whose  dower 
Of  beauty  was  a  thing  to  conquer  hate, 

Made  those  to  wonder  who  forget  the  power 

Oft  lent  to  rudest  rocks,  to  grow  a  lovely  flower. 

Her  features  purely  proud  and  sweetly  sad, 
And  blue  her  eyne  as  skies  have  never  been, 

No  sabot  but  a  small  black  slipper  clad 

Her  graceful  foot,  her  hair  was  amber  sheen, 
iqg 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

She  stood  a  lily,  and  she  moved  a  queen: 
Merely  her  wordless  presence  stopped  a  fight 

More  than  her  forebears'  tongues  and  fists,  I  ween, 
And  faces  shamed  to  red  that  erst  were  white; 
And  this  "vierge  de  missel"  Vamezel  Enora  hight. 

The  Breton  Inn. — M.  M. 


MONSIEUR  ANTOINE  FLOCHARD  had  not  forgotten — nor 
forgiven — the  undignified  manner  in  which  his  worthless 
bones  had  been  saved  by  the  unexpected  intervention  of 
what  he  called  "one  of  those  boors  of  peasants."  There 
is  nothing  so  sweepingly  complete  as  the  contempt  of  the 
lower  middle-classes  for  the  simple-minded  toilers  of  the 
fields;  and  the  gifted  Flochard,  whose  progenitor  had 
been  a  drunken  mechanic  much  given  to  pummelling  his 
wife  and  family,  was  not  behind-hand  in  declaring,  when 
he  could  do  so  without  prejudice  to  his  political  objects, 
that  next  to  the  nobles,  none  were  so  pestilential  as  those 
who  sought  a  precarious  living  from  mother  earth  or  the 
depths  of  the  sea.  This  rancor  was,  of  course,  quite  un 
abated  by  recent  events,  and  he  promised  himself  ven 
geance  upon  the  populations  of  Rozkavel,  Kremarze",  and 
even  distant  Laoual,  as  soon  as  his  all-powerful  patron, 
Senator  Dulac,  arrived  upon  the  scene. 

Meanwhile,  having  fully  recognized  the  perils  attending 
his  propaganda,  he  restricted  his  efforts  to  the  ordering 
and  "embellishment"  of  Castle  Rozkavel,  including  a 
reckless  partitioning  of  the  grand  old  halls  and  lordly 
salons  into  box-like  little  rooms,  lined  as  real  bonbon- 
boxes  are,  with  gaudy  satins,  and  crowding  the  same  with 
that  horror  of  all  modern  horrors,  plush  and  gilt  furniture. 
He  was  only  obeying  orders,  it  is  true,  but  his  own  taste 
and  Madame  Dulac's  being  trained  around  the  same  un 
compromisingly  bourgeois  prop,  his  small  eyes  sparkled 
with  appreciative  delight  as  he  saw  one  grotesque  mon- 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

strosity  added  to  another;  and  when,  finally,  the  whole 
magnificent  interior  of  the  six-hundred-year-old  Chateau 
had  been  scraped  and  polished,  varnished  and  lacquered, 
hung  with  glaring  draperies,  and  coated  with  meretricious 
bullion  until  not  one  square  inch  remained  to  spoil,  he 
felt  that  he,  indeed,  had  more  than  fulfilled  his  honorable 
mission,  and  sat  himself  down  to  wait  as  patiently  as  he 
could;  with  the  help  of  innumerable  fat,  black  cigars, 
and  almost  as  numerous  bottles  of  costly  liqueurs — for  the 
provisioning  of  the  vast  cellars  had  not  been  neglected  by 
this  thoughtful  soul. 

Another  and  by  no  means  negligible  pastime  was  af 
forded  him  in  his  luxurious  solitude  by  the  daily  reports 
of  the  two  shady  ex-police  agents  whom  he  had  imported 
from  Paris  after  his  mishap  at  Kerdikan's  inn.  Carefully 
instructed  by  him  in  the  way  they  should  go,  and  dis 
guised  as  stablemen,  these  worthies,  scarcely  more  cour 
ageous  but  considerably  shrewder  at  such  a  game  than 
Flochard,  mixed  with  the  frequenters  of  neighboring  cab 
arets  as  often  as  they  could  in  quest  of  news.  This 
had  been  scanty  hitherto,  for  even  when  drunk  a  Breton 
remains  unpleasantly  cautious  and  close-mouthed.  Still 
that  detail  was  not  of  a  nature  to  embarrass  two  such 
wide-awake  persons  as  Messieurs  Perron  and  Luvel,  and 
since  what  they  did  not  actually  discover  they  invented, 
their  delations  suffered  neither  in  bulk  nor  interest,  and 
filled  the  Senator's  secretary  with  joy.  Indeed,  the 
pseudo-grooms  played  their  parts  creditably,  abusing  their 
august  employers,  as  real  servants  take  untiring  satis 
faction  in  doing,  bawling  aloud  about  Monsieur's  parsi 
mony,  Madame's  false  hair  and  sadly  real  if  now  outlawed 
pranks — one  would  have  sworn  this  gave  them  as  much 
pleasure  to  do  as  if  they  hadn't  been  paid  for  it — and  in 
short  deceiving  their  hearers  as  to  their  status  ...  all 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

excepting  that  curious  little  bundle  of  natural  astuteness, 
Korneli,  surnamed  Keleren,  or  "  Will-o'-the-Wisp,"  and 
one  of  the  Royalist  party's  most  active  agents. 

From  the  day  when  Rouanez  had  bidden  him  watch 
Antoine  Flochard,  Antoine  Flochard  had  been  watched 
with  a  completeness  little  short  of  the  marvellous,  and 
the  advent  and  import  of  the  two  ex-police  spies  had  not 
remained  a  secret  to  Korneli  for  a  single  minute.  "They 
have  as  good  an  opinion  of  themselves  as  if  they  had 
lighted  up  the  sun  with  their  own  little  pocket  tinder- 
boxes,"  he  had  told  Rouanez,  when  signalling  their  pres 
ence  at  old  Rozkavel,  "but  Lilik" — Korneli  was  fond  of 
calling  himself  soft-sounding  pet  names  when  in  a  good 
humor — "has  a  tinder-box  of  his  own  to  set  fire  to  their 
paper  castles!"  At  which  Rouanez  had  laughed,  and  ad 
vised  him  to  turn  incendiary  as  speedily  as  possible. 

A  few  nights  later  Korneli  Keleren,  his  face  buried  in 
his  arms,  was  slouching  half  across  the  clumsy  black  oak 
table  of  the  old  inn  on  Rozkavel  high-street,  apparently 
fast  asleep,  for  his  well-knit  frame  seemed  utterly  relaxed, 
and  now  and  again  a  smothered  snore  gave  further  evi 
dence  in  favor  of  this  theory.  This  inn,  which  bore  in 
scribed  both  in  French  and  Breton  on  a  once  brilliantly 
azure-and-white  board  fastened  to  the  door-lintel  the 
extraordinary  and  misleading  appellation  of  Au  Rendez 
vous  des  Amiraux,  had  been  kept  by  two  women,  mother 
and  daughter,  since  the  untimely  death  of  the  head  of  the 
house,  from  an  over-consumption  of  his  own  wares,  some 
five  years  before.  There  was  also  a  tobacconist's  shop 
attached  to  the  establishment,  and  this  being  throughout 
France  a  highly  prized  governmental  monopoly,  is  usual 
ly  granted  only  to  those  who  have  deserved  it  by  faithful 
service.  In  the  present  case,  however,  the  modest  Debit 
de  Tabac  presided  over  by  pretty  Enora,  while  her  mother 

202 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

dispensed  liquid  refreshment  in  the  inn  proper,  had  been 
bestowed  upon  the  family  many  years  before  the  existing 
political  state  of  affairs — indeed,  as  far  back  as  the  dig 
nified  rule  of  the  long-regretted  President  Carnot,  which 
would  have  excused  the  two  women  for  entertaining  any 
feeling  they  chose  for  his  successors  had  they  not  been 
far  too  busy  to  think  of  the  matter  at  all.  As  it  was  they 
were  doing  well,  for  tobacco  and  drink  are  always  the 
most  remunerative  of  comestibles.  Nor  did  they  greatly 
feel  the  want  of  a  man  to  help  in  the  business,  since 
Mother  Roparz  was  always  equal  to  the  task  of  reducing 
to  silence  the  most  unruly  brawler,  and  Enora's  extraor 
dinary  beauty  attracted  customers  from  far  and  wide. 

This  daughter  of  a  long  line  of  village  publicans — the 
Roparzes  had  kept  that  little  inn,  father  and  son,  for  over 
a  hundred  years — belonged  to  a  type  now  rarely  met  with 
outside  the  pages  of  an  illuminated  missal,  and  which 
seemed  doubly  startling  in  the  smoky  atmosphere  of 
that  dusky  drinking-place.  Pale  and  delicate,  with  that 
purity  of  profile  which  is  ascribed  by  tradition  to  the 
Madonna,  but  is  seldom  realized  by  painters,  ancient  or 
modern,  she  had  a  perfectly  oval  face,  a  lovely,  grave  little 
mouth  drooping  ever  so  slightly  at  the  corners,  and  gold- 
lashed  lilac  eyes — lilac  as  the  hare-bells  are,  with  no  hint 
of  blue  or  gray  in  the  clear,  candid  iris — while  the  golden 
eyebrows,  pencilled  down  the  centre  with  a  single  darker 
line  and  set  curiously  high  above  the  orbit,  lent  to  the  whole 
countenance  beneath  its  narrow  bandeaux  of  pale  blond, 
almost  amber-colored  hair,  and  the  severe  white  folds  of 
the  unadorned  coiffe,  a  touch  both  archaic  and  pure.  The 
girl  literally  breathed  purity,  and  her  manner  of  doing 
anything,  whether  she  was  filling  with  coarse  pipe-tobacco 
the  little  twists  of  rough  paper  which  she  sold  for  one  sou, 
or  busying  her  slender,  aristocratic  fingers  with  the  piece 

203 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

of  knitting  that  Breton  women  invariably  carry  in  their 
apron-pockets  and  drag  forth  immediately  they  have  a 
spare  second,  made  the  employment  a  dignified  and  fitting 
one.  Also  she  loved  flowers,  as  a  tenderly-cared-for  row 
of  geraniums  and  veronicas  on  the  wide  window-sill  be 
hind  her  abundantly  proved. 

"She  has  tastes  that  don't  go  with  her  rank,"  the 
mother  often  proudly  explained;  and  this  being  so,  the 
worthy  woman  took  care  to  spare  her  daughter  all  the 
rude  work  of  the  establishment,  preferring  to  see  her  sit 
in  her  dainty  kerchief  and  immaculate  apron  behind  the 
narrow  counter  than  to  be  herself  relieved  of  any  task 
which  she  deemed  unsuitable  for  Enora. 

Only  a  couple  of  fishermen,  besides  the  slumbering 
Korneli,  were  just  then  occupying  the  drinking-room  of 
the  inn;  and  those  two  were  lazily  shuffling  a  pack  of 
greasy  cards  while  sipping  the  usual  bolees  of  cider  well 
laced  with  coarse  spirits.  They  had  just  returned  from 
a  fairly  satisfactory  day's  herring-fishing;  hence  the  un 
wonted  treat  which  they  slowly  and  silently  enjoyed  to 
the  full.  Bending  over  the  iron  pot  simmering  on  a  dull 
turf  fire,  Mother  Roparz  paid  not  the  slightest  attention 
to  her  guests.  She  was  a  tall  woman,  who  in  the  long 
ago  had  been  admired  for  the  regularity  of  her  features 
and  the  brightness  of  her  blue  eyes;  but  age  had  some 
what  too  strongly  emphasized  the  heroic  lines  of  her 
figure,  and  of  late  years  a  small  mustache  had  added 
much  superfluous  virility  to  her  already  rather  forbidding 
exterior.  Her  really  Herculean  strength  stood  her  in 
good  stead  with  her  often  difficult  customers,  who  re 
spected  her  fists  almost  as  much  as  they  dreaded  her 
tongue-lashings. 

Suddenly  the  half-door  was  pushed  open,  and  two  men 
wearing  the  gaiters,  tweed  breeches,  and  striped,  long- 

204 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

sleeved  waistcoats  of  well-found  stablemen  slouched  in, 
chewing  spears  of  straw  in  the  approved  fashion  of  their 
kind. 

"Hallo,  Mother  Roparz!"  cried  the  burlier  of  the  two, 
a  square-jawed  individual,  whose  rubicund  nose  was  the 
meanest  of  libels  if  he  were  not  an  habitual  drunkard. 
"We've  got  ten  minutes  to  spare  from  their  infernal 
boutique,  and  we  thought  we'd  come  and  take  a  pull  at 
your  A  No.  i  spinach-juice.  But  be  quick  about  it,  be 
fore  that  hollow-stomached  Flochard  discovers  our  ab 
sence,  or  he'll  be  sending  the  stable-cleaner  after  us — • 
damn  him!" 

Mother  Roparz,  who  spoke  and  understood  French 
passably,  although  she  made  use  of  this  advantage  only 
when  unable  to  avoid  it,  and  then  but  grudgingly,  shook 
the  last  fagot  twigs  from  her  apron  into  the  fire  she  had 
been  reviving,  and  crossing  over  to  a  sort  of  small,  zinc- 
covered  bar  in  the  corner,  reached  for  a  bottle  of  absinthe 
and  two  glasses,  which,  together  with  a  stone  jug  full  of 
well-water,  she  placed  before  the  horsey  gentlemen,  sprawl 
ing  side  by  side  on  the  end  of  the  bench  where  Korneli 
still  audibly  slumbered. 

"Pass  the  ingredients  to  me,"  the  thinner  and  until 
now  less  assertive  groom  said,  in  an  odiously  raucous 
voice.  "There's  no  one  like  yours  truly  for  beating  a 
parrot — battre  un  perroquet  means  in  France  to  mix  sci 
entifically  that  exquisite-hued  but  deadliest  of  all  bev 
erages,  which  they  call  there  I' Aperitif,  with  a  big  A — 
and  Perron,  for  the  red-nosed  one  was  no  less  a  person 
age,  eagerly  complied  with  his  comrade's  request,  and 
fell  to  watching  the  delicate  operation  with  covetous, 
blood-shot  eyes.  The  quick  little  tap-tap  of  spoon  against 
glass  no  doubt  accomplished  what  the  noisy  entry  of  the 
aggressive  couple  had  failed  to  do,  for  Korneli  ceased 

205 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

snoring,  raised  his  head  with  a  loud,  dismal  yawn,  and 
began  to  stretch  himself  like  one  painfully  cramped. 

"  Eh,  L'Enrhume!"  *  Perron  cried,  slapping  the  youth  on 
the  shoulder.  "Been  hugging  Mamma  Roparz's  cognac 
bottles  too  tight?" 

Korneli  yawned  once  more  cavernously,  and  fixed  his 
sleepy  blue  eyes  stupidly  on  his  gay  interlocutor,  but 
forbore  to  answer. 

"You're  a  good  one,"  the  latter  resumed,  "to  come 
and  spend  your  hard-earned  sous  here  as  soon  as  they've 
been  doled  out  to  you.  Why  don't  you  try  and  get  a 
job  at  our  shop?  The  head  gardener  might  find  some 
thing  for  you  to  do,  and  you  wouldn't  need  to  be  up  all 
night  long  raking  salt." 

Korneli  half  turned  away  from  the  absinthe-drinkers. 
"It  isn't  my  idea  to  be  any  man's  servant,"  he  said, 
gruffly.  "Better  earn  less  and  be  on  one's  own." 

"Bah!"  Luvel  exclaimed,  still  bending  over  his  task, 
jug  in  hand.  "It's  with  such  ideas  that  one  remains 
poor.  Look  at  us!  D'you  think  we  fancy  slavery  bet- 
ter'n  you  do?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  But  my  maxim  is  to 
scrape  the  bourgeois  first,  last,  and  all  the  time.  And 
mind  you,  one  can  do  a  lot  of  scraping  in  a  gold-lined 
thieves'  cave  like  ours." 

"Possible.  But  it  takes  clever  chaps  like  you  to  do 
the  scraping.  I  wouldn't  know  how." 

"Sacre  farceur!"  Perron  interposed.  "  It's  easy  enough 
to  learn.  We'd  soon  show  you  the  ropes.  Want  to  try?" 

"You  must  have  too  much  for  yourselves,  if  you're  so 
set  on  sharing,"  Korneli  muttered.  "It  ain't  natural  to 
be  so  generous  ...  or  perhaps  there's  some  dirty  business 
you  want  me  to  do." 

*  Literally,  "  man  with  a  cold  "  —  about  equivalent  to  "  sleepy 
head  "  or  "  numskull." 

206 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Both  grooms  shrugged  their  shoulders  with  one  accord, 
and  equal  contempt  for  such  crass  imbecility. 

"If  it  was  that,"  Perron  candidly  admitted,  "we'd  keep 
it  for  ourselves.  It's  too  well  paid  to  be  passed  over  to 
some  one  else." 

"I  don't  know,"  Korneli  drawled,  carefully  stuffing 
some  shreds  of  tobacco  into  his  short  clay  pipe.  "A 
while  ago  a  lad  from  hereabouts  was  caught  like  that  .  .  . 
promised  clean  work  and  then  set  to  spy  ..."  He  spat 
sideways  on  the  hard-beaten  earthen  floor.  "Yah!  ...  to 
spy,  no  less,  on  some  harmless  good  people  who  had  taken 
a  fine  house  for  the  bathing-time,  Morgat  way,  and  had 
a  big  boat  of  their  own,  too,  fitted  up  grandly." 

The  two  agents  had  pricked  up  their  ears  and  put  down 
their  glasses  at  the  word  Morgat. 

"What  sort  of  parishioners  were  they?"  Perron  asked, 
in  a  suddenly  quickened,  eager  voice,  which  caused  his 
mate  to  look  at  him  with  angry  warning. 

"I've  told  you  ...  a  good  sort,  specially  the  mother  .  .  . 
she  was  a  thundering  fine  one  she  was,  with  a  big  nose 
and  eyes  like  a  hawk's.  A  Countess,  too,"  he  concluded, 
dragging  on  the  two  syllables  of  the  title  as  if  they  tasted 
good. 

"You  bet  ...  I  know  who  you  mean  now!"  the  irre 
pressible  Perron  cried.  "  Hadn't  she  got  a  name  the  same 
as  a  city  .  .  .  think  well  ...  of  a  very  great  city  .  .  .  the 
biggest  in  .  .  ." 

"Aw!  Shut  up,"  the  exasperated  Luvel  here  roughly 
interrupted.  "What  does  it  matter  to  us  who  she  was?" 

Among  Perron's  less  objectionable  qualities,  there  shone 
with  subdued  lustre  a  great  delight  in  teasing;  and  now 
under  the  influence  of  his  second  glass  of  absinthe  he  re 
fused  to  be  downed. 

"'Course  it  does!"  he  stated,  with  one  finger  raised 

207 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

knowingly  to  the  side  of  his  nose,  and  a  leer  of  intense 
malice.  "  'Course  it  does.  Don't  it,  L'Enrhume?" 

"  If  it's  to  me  you're  talking,  I  can  tell  you  I  don't  care 
a  damn  what  she  was  called,"  Korneli  said,  rising  to  go 
and  light  his  pipe  by  the  aid  of  a  brand  from  the  hearth. 
"  What  does  it  matter,  anyhow,  one  way  or  the  other  ?" 

"Think  well,"  persisted  Perron,  who,  having  already 
imbibed  before  coming  to  the  inn,  was  now  getting  drunk. 
"Wasn't  it  the  name  of  a  great  city  ...  of  the  greatest 
city  in  .  .  ." 

"  Maybe,  maybe,"  Korneli  observed,  with  crushing  indif 
ference,  "or  maybe  not.  I  don't  remember." 

"  But  I  do,"  Perron  cried,  triumphantly.  "  I  remember 
very  well  indeed;  and  what's  more,  if  that  thundering 
fine  woman  had  only  been  her  own  son  she  would  not  have 
come  there  for  nothing  either — as  they  say  he  did,  once 
or  twice,  on  his  yacht  during  his  mother's  stay.  He 
mustn't  have  inherited  those  famous  hawk's  eyes  of  hers, 
nor  much  of  her  grit  neither;  and  he  isn't  by  half  as  up 
standing  as  his  little  brother,  who's  at  least  a  wide-awake 
rabbit.  It's  a  poor  look-out  for  a  would-be  King  to  be 
content  to  sit  in  a  corner  watching  his  country  from  across 
the  water.  No  wonder  with  such  a  sleepy  leader  that 
those  stinking  aristos  should  all  have  collapsed,  though 
there  are  some  who  do  say — "  But  here  a  slender  hand 
dropped  smartly  on  his  shoulder,  and  facing  round  he 
found  himself  confronted  by  what  but  few  in  Rozkavel 
village  had  ever  seen:  dainty  little  Enora  Roparz  in  a 
red  fury  of  wrath. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  foul-mouthed  land-crab!"  she 
stormed.  "Hold  your  tongue!  You've  said  more  than 
enough  already.  And  don't  you  ever  presume  to  speak 
again  like  that  under  our  roof,  or  else  you'll  be  sorry  for 
it!"  The  French  syllables  borrowed  a  strange  intensity 

208 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

from  her  unaccustomed  lips,  and  she  managed  to  make 
her  meaning  exceedingly  plain.  Even  Perron's  befuddled 
brain  could  not  misunderstand,  and  he  instantly  began 
to  apologize — though  in  terms  that  might  perhaps  have 
been  better  chosen. 

"All  right,  all  right,  you  little  Royalist  spitfire.'  he 
hastened  to  say.  "I'm  sure  I  didn't  know  you  were 
stuck  on  His  High  Mightiness,  nor  for  the  matter  of  that, 
that  you'd  ever  clapped  eyes  on  him." 

"  Neither  I  have,"  she  contemptuously  interrupted,  "but 
it  isn't  for  a  drunken  good-for-nothing  like  you  to  make 
free  with  such  people's  names,  and  you  sha'n't  do  so  when 
I'm  about.  Yes,  yes,  Mammik!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a  dif 
ferent  tone,  as  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  Mother  Roparz 
came  hurrying  out  of  the  near-by  scullery.  "I'm  going 
back  to  my  niche;  don't  bother  about  me."  And  turn 
ing  with  a  last  gesture  of  disgust  from  the  group  by  the 
table,  she  walked  away,  leaving  her  amazed  parent — 
arms  upraised  above  her  coiffe — muttering  in  incoherent 
Breton:  "Didn't  I  always  say  that  she  has  ideas  that 
don't  go  with  her  rank?  But  Holy  Virgin  Mary,  what 
ails  her  to-night?"  Then  she  strode  toward  the  drinkers. 

"You've  understood,  I  fancy,  what  my  daughter  has 
told  you!"  she  said,  fiercely.  "For  myself  I  don't  give  a 
rotten  strand  of  hemp  what  you  say  or  think;  but  she's 
not  to  be  annoyed;  and  if  you  try  that  game  again  I'll 
spit  in  my  hands  and  bundle  both  of  you  into  the  gutter 
before  you  can  so  much  as  set  your  caps  straight.  So 
mend  your  mariners  if  you  know  what's  good  for  you!" 
She  too  meant  no  idle  threat,  as  the  pair  of  muscular  fists 
she  shook  under  Perron's  brandy-nose  amply  testified, 
and  the  prudent  Luvel  hastened  to  attempt  her  pacifica 
tion. 

"Cool  down,  cool  down,  Mamma  Roparz,"  he  coaxed. 
*4  209 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"It's  only  Perron's  nonsense.  He's  a  bit  of  a  joker  when 
he's  had  enough  liquid;  otherwise  he'd  be  the  last  to  go 
against  any  lady's  political  opinions — in  her  presence  at 
least." 

"I'm  not  a  lady,  and  I  haven't  any  political  opinions," 
the  formidable  widow  thundered.  "Poor,  unprotected 
women  like  me  don't  get  time  to  meddle  with  such.  But 
just  the  same,  you  behave  yourselves  when  you're  here, 
my  men,  that's  all!"  And  still  grumbling,  she  turned 
heavily  on  her  clattering  wooden  heels  and  followed 
Enora  into  the  little  partitioned  Debit. 

"  It's  all  your  fault,  you  cursed  imbecile,"  Luvel  growled, 
angrily, in  Perron's  ear.  "What  d'you  want  to  come  rav 
ing  here  about  your  mothers  that  should  be  their  own 
sons,  and  the  rest  of  that  balderdash?  You're  drunk, 
that's  what  you  are,  and  we'd  better  be  moving  on  before 
you  do  worse!" 

But  Perron,  who  during  the  altercation  had  been  rapid 
ly  swallowing  another  of  his  favorite  opalescent  mixtures 
to  bolster  up  his  startled  feelings,  received  the  proposal 
in  a  sour  spirit. 

"  Go  home  if  you  like,"  he  said,  thickly,  bending  further 
over  the  glass  he  was  cuddling,  "or  to  Hell  if  you  like 
that  better.  I'm  for  comfort  first  and  bed  afterward. 
Keep  your  dirty  paws  off  me,  will  you?"  he  added,  squirm 
ing  in  Luvel's  grasp.  "I  won't  go  with  you  now,  burn 
your  eyes!  And  what's  more,  I'll  say  what  I  please  about 
Pretenders  who  don't  pretend  the  right  way  and  Pre 
tenders  who  do;  d'you  hear?"  He  was  as  red  as  a 
turkey-cock  now,  and  his  wicked  little  eyes  blazed  so 
fiercely  that  Luvel  let  go  of  his  coat-collar  rather  abrupt 
ly,  dreading  a  rough-and-tumble  with  him  even  more  than 
a  continuance  of  his  imprudent  disclosures.  After  all, 
the  rough-and-tumble  might  mean  a  rent  in  his  precious 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

skin,  while  the  indiscretions  would  later  on  be  visited  on 
the  culprit's  own  head.  Besides  which,  Korneli  was  far 
too  dull,  he  thought,  to  have  understood,  the  two  women 
were  now  out  of  ear-shot,  and  the  card-playing  fishermen 
had  fortunately  long  since  departed. 

"Oh,  let's  stay  on  by  all  means!"  he  acquiesced,  mag 
nificently.  "I'm  not  set  on  carrying  you  back  by  main 
force.  I'll  even  stand  you  another  drink  to  show  there's 
no  hard  feeling."  His  policy  now  was  to  thicken  the 
cloud  obscuring  Perron's  brain  as  speedily  as  possible,  and 
in  order  to  hasten  this  desirable  end  he  turned  amiably 
toward  Korneli  and  asked  him  to  join  them. 

"No,  thank  you,"  the  youth  replied;  "I  don't  care  for 
the  taste  of  absinthe.  If  it  were  cognac  now,  I  don't 
know  but  what  I  would  perhaps  take  a  hornful,  but  no 
poison  for  me,  I  say." 

"  The  baby's  right !"  Perron  gleefully  exclaimed.  "Cogn 
ac's  the  thing  to  give  us  tone,"  and  he  began  calling 
loudly  for  Mother  Roparz  to  bring  him  some  of  her  best 
"potato  sap,"  an  order  which  filled  Korneli  with  hope, 
for  he  knew  the  effect  that  the  fiery  stuff  would  produce 
on  top  of  those  copious  draughts  of  absinthe. 

"You  never  told  us,"  Perron  re-began,  nudging  Korneli 
fraternally  in  the  small  ribs,  "what  happened  to  your 
good  friend  the  spy.  Wasn't  he  paid  for  his  pains?" 

"Oh!  don't  let's  talk  about  him,"  Korneli  grumbled. 
"  He  wasn't  to  blame,  since  he  didn't  know  what  they 
were  hiring  him  for.  But  in  spite  of  that  his  people 
wouldn't  recognize  him  afterward,  and  he  signed  on  a 
deep-sea  trawler,  so  as  to  keep  away  from  home." 

" Plague  and  pestilence!  You're  a  squeamish  lot  round 
here;  a  mighty  .  .  .  what  d'you  call  it  ...  par  .  .  .  ticular 
crowd  of  aristos!  No  wonder  they're  afraid  of  Brittany  if 
all  of  you  are  .  .  .  like  that."  Perron  stuttered,  tumbling 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

over  his  words,  and  leering  at  Korneli.  "D'you  know 
that  Princess — who — who  roosts  all  alone  ...  at  ...  I 
can't  recall  the  name  of  the  blasted  place  .  .  .  you  tell, 
Luvel  .  .  .  Fort  .  .  .  Fort  .  .  ." 

"Rozkavel,"  Luvel  said,  suddenly,  with  surprising 
promptness  and  obliging  good-nature,  for  in  encouraging 
his  friend  to  drink  deep  he  had  trapped  himself  unaware, 
and  had  now  reached  that  degree  of  mellowness  which 
loosens  tongues  and  principles  with  like  ease. 

"That's  it,  Roz—Roz— Rozkavel!" 

"The  English  lady?"  Korneli  promptly  interposed. 
"They  say  round  here  she's  crazy." 

Perron,  lying  almost  entirely  across  the  table,  began 
to  rock  himself  waggishly  from  side  to  side.  "English 
and  crazy — crazy  and  English — some  think  it's — one  and 
the  same  thing  .  .  .  but —  Here  he  unexpectedly 
straightened  up,  banged  his  two  fists  on  the  edge  of  the 
table  with  such  violence  that  two  glasses  and  the  brandy- 
bottle — now  three-quarters  empty — toppled  over  on  their 
sides.  "But  I  have  a  ...  good  .  .  .  n-n-notion  that  she  is 
neither  the  one  n-n-nor  the  oth-other.  I  tell  .  .  .  you" — 
he  rose  to  his  unsteady  feet,  swaying  jerkily  backward 
and  forward,  and  victoriously  concluded  —  "I — I — I've 
•  •  •  g-got  a  lit  ...  tie  ...  idea!" 

"Pas  de  b&tises!"  the  momentarily  sobered  Luvel  fiercely 
whispered,  and  taking  him  by  the  arm,  he  dragged  him 
bodily  out  of  the  house,  muttering  a  torrent  of  abuse  in 
his  face. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

Mysterious  in  the  mist-light  milky-clear, 

Spread  by  a  shrouded  moon,  the  marshes  lay, 
And  islanded  with  salt-mounds  there  and  here 

Slept  the  broad  glimmering  level  silver-gray. 

All  blackly  cross-barred  with  thin  banks  of  clay, 
It  seemed  a  pale  abysm,  covered  in 

With  a  huge  grate,  whereon  till  Judgment  Day 
Strange  fiends  and  spirits  unassoiled  of  sin 
Trooped  hideous,  but  forbore  to  make  their  hellish  din. 

A  briny  violet  odor  filled  the  air 

When  any  wandering  night  wind  drowsily 

Dulled  at  a  breath  those  mirrors  still  and  square, 
And  swift  and  still  as  though  by  gramarye 
Moved  the  black  shapes  in  files  of  four  or  three 

This  way  and  that  about  their  labor  drear, 
With  uncouth  burdens  laden  heavily, 

And  some  with  poles  seemed  puddling  the  mere, 

And  ape-like  others  clomb  the  white  mounds  shining  near. 

And  if  perchance  a  shadow  spoke  or  screamed 

A  seldom  jest  or  message,  therewithal 
Part  of  the  vast  inhuman  night  it  seemed, 

As  might  a  frog's  cry  or  a  heron's  call, 

And  down  the  silence  settled  like  a  pall 
Of  heaviest  loom,  and  through  her  velvet  sway 

A  murmur  from  the  dead  stars  seemed  to  fall, 
Or  from  one's  throbbing  heart — one  could  not  say — 
And  morning  seemed  a  dream,  and  wondrous  far  away. 

The  Salt  Workers.— M.  M. 

OUTSIDE,  the  night  had  lightened  to  the  whiteness  of 
falling  snow,  thanks  to  the  sudden  rising  of  one  of  those 
filmy  summer  mists  which  on  that  coast  envelop  every- 

213 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

thing  in  the  daintiest  of  semi-transparent  veils,  and  which, 
though  not  really  hiding  any  object  from  view,  yet,  on 
account  of  their  distortion  of  distance  and  perspective, 
are  to  be  classed  among  Nature's  most  misleading  freaks. 
The  squat  granite  houses  on  both  sides  of  the  village 
street  seemed  gigantic,  and  their  unambitious  chimneys 
looked  twice  the  usual  size,  while  the  gauze-shrouded 
dunes  behind  loomed  like  dream-mountains  against  the 
pale  sky,  where  a  small  moon  was  doubtless  hanging  mis 
chievously  out  of  sight  to  add  by  its  deadened  gleam  to 
the  bewilderment  of  home-goers. 

"Damn  this  trick-box  of  a  country!"  Luvel  growled, 
endeavoring  to  pilot  his  unsteady  companion  through 
these  uncharted  seas  of  luminous  fog.  "Hold  up,  you 
swine,  you're  breaking  my  arm.  D'you  think  I  can  stand 
your  full  weight?"  And  he  gave  the  swaying  Perron  a 
savage  dig  in  the  ribs. 

Unused  as  yet  to  the  confusing  criss-cross  tracks  that 
zigzag  through  the  heather  and  twist  in  and  out  of  the 
sand-hills,  his  own  imperfect  sobriety  caused  him  to  mis 
take  the  path  leading  to  the  vast  stretch  of  salt-marsh 
belonging  to  the  Kremarze'  domain  for  that  winding  tow 
ard  Rozkavel  Castle;  and  dragging  Perron  after  him,  he 
labored  on,  quite  oblivious  of  his  error,  but  waxing  more 
and  more  profane  as  one  hazily  remembered  landmark 
after  another  failed  to  materialize — waxing  drunker,  too, 
for  his  last  hasty  drink  was  taking  effect. 

The  salt  season  was  at  its  height,  and  in  the  dip  of  the 
dunes,  where  the  great  stretch  of  shallow  water — neatly 
banked  for  the  purpose  of  evaporation  into  small  check 
ered  squares — connects  here  and  there  by  wooden  sluices 
with  the  vast  tidal  reservoirs  from  which  these  ceillets  de 
marais  are  flooded  when  need  arises,  the  tiny  mud-dikes 
were  crowded  with  workers,  moving  swiftly  back  and 

214 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

forth  and  bearing  their  heavy  burdens  with  the  ease  that 
is  only  to  be  attained  by  a  life-long  training.  The  vapor 
ous  mist  did  not  worry  them,  but  when  all  at  once  Luvel, 
by  now  almost  exhausted,  debouched  upon  the  broad, 
low  embankment  half  encircling  the  "salt- field,"  the 
spectacle  of  what  might  have  seemed  even  to  less  tipsy 
eyes  an  endless  military  camp,  studded  with  preposterous 
tents  between  which  an  army  of  giants  rushed  wildly, 
brandishing  uncouth  weapons  above  their  monstrous  heads, 
sent  him  with  a  howl  of  terror  to  the  hard-bake  ridge  on 
top  of  Perron. 

"That  comes  from  meddling  with  this  hellish  land!"  he 
groaned,  staring  in  horrible  fascination  at  the  towering, 
fog-distorted  peaks,  some  ghostly  white,  others  —  those 
where  the  mounded  salt  had  already  been  coated  over 
with  protecting  mud — dark  and  threatening  on  their  mys 
terious  island  platforms;  and  at  the  inhuman  shapes 
storming  position  after  position  along  the  glimmering 
level,  to  rush  off  again  at  an  always  undiminished  speed, 
constantly  breaking  and  reforming  their  satanic  ranks. 

Luvel' s  moans  were  sobering  Perron,  and  after  a  little 
that  able  secret  agent  struggled  to  a  sitting  posture  and 
demanded  in  no  uncertain  accents  what  was  up.  There 
was,  he  argued,  with  rapidly  clearing  discernment  and 
much  justice,  no  sense  in  making  the  night  hideous  with 
discordant  sounds  such  as  now  fell  upon  his,  Perron's, 
ears,  and  he  further  marked  his  disapproval  of  the  per 
formance  by  offering  to  fight  the  offender  then  and  there, 
single-handed.  But  at  this  point  of  his  discourse,  having 
painfully  regained  the  perpendicular  and  cast  a  challeng 
ing  eye  around  him,  he  collapsed  ignominiously,  and  lay 
panting  and  sweating  beside  his  unhappy  comrade. 

"Oh!  Oh!  Oh!"  he  gurgled.  "What  did  that  old 
hag  put  in  the  absinthe?"  And  in  a  shuddering  whisper 

215 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

added:  "Are  we  dead  already  .  .  .  poisoned?  I  don't 
s-s-sup-pose,  Luvel  .  .  .  you'll  .  .  .  deny  .  .  .  that  this 
place  1-looks  .  .  .  unc-c-commonly  like  .  .  .  Hell!" 

For  a  few  minutes  more  the  two  boozers  squirmed  and 
rocked  themselves  to  and  fro  in  their  terror.  But  little 
by  little,  the  sharp,  briny  air  of  the  marshes  aiding,  they 
grew  calmer,  and  began  to  regain  the  use  of  their  scat 
tered  intellects.  Of  course  they  had  been  drinking  too 
much — more  especially  Perron,  as  the  candid  Luvel  did 
not  hesitate  to  assure  him — but  they  were  still  in  the 
land  of  the  living;  no  doubt  of  that.  Ordinary  reason 
proved  it.  This  was  earth  upon  which  they  sat,  and  that 
thorny  bush  near  by  was  real  enough ;  for  on  being  fum 
bled  by  an  experimental  hand  it  proved  its  genuineness 
with  absolutely  Breton  ferocity. 

"You  blasted  idiot !"  Luvel  suddenly  exclaimed.  "  Don't 
you  see  where  we  are?  Why  it's  the  marais-salants,  and 
you  accuse  me  of  not  seeing  straight!  But  what  did  you 
bring  me  here  for,  I  want  to  know  .  .  .  what  for  ?  What 
for?  Eh?  Can  you  tell  me  why?" 

Perron,  though  beginning  dimly  to  realize  that  he  had 
made  a  considerable  fool  of  himself,  felt  that  his  entire 
ignorance  as  to  how  he  got  there  was  a  strong  point  in  his 
favor,  and  proceeded  to  enlarge  upon  this.  But  Luvel, 
bent  only  on  repairing  his  own  blunders  as  speedily  as 
possible,  rose  and  plodded  off  unsteadily  in  the  direction 
whence  he  had  come,  without  so  much  as  deigning  to 
answer,  leaving  him  to  follow,  as  best  he  might,  through 
the  clinging  sand  of  the  dune.  After  all,  he  was  not  sorry 
to  have  proofs  in  hand  of  Perron's  unreliability;  for  had 
he  not  been  forced  to  support  him,  and  prevent  him  from 
falling  down  at  every  step,  he  would  not  have  missed  the 
road,  and  all  this  would  have  been  avoided.  Moreover, 
there  was  no  knowing  what  harm  those  partial  disclosures 

216 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

at  the  Rendez-vous  des  Amiraux  might  not  yet  cause.  He 
did  not  want  to  lose  his  job  by  an  unduly  chivalrous  gen 
erosity  toward  his  brother  spy.  Possessed  with  thoughts 
that  ran  uncertainly  along  these  lines,  he  kept  doggedly 
on  until  he  had  once  more  reached  the  firm  high-road. 
Then  he  paused  and  glanced  back  along  the  deep  rut, 
clouded  as  far  as  eye  could  reach  with  soft,  drifting  masses 
of  what  a  more  poetical  mind  might  have  found  uncom 
monly  similar  to  faintly  silvered  tulle. 

"Sacre  nom  de  nom!"  he  grumbled,  straining  his  eyes. 
"Where  has  he  got  to?"  His  gaiters  and  shoes  were  full 
of  fine  sand,  his  head  ached  abominably,  and  from  second 
to  second  his  ill-temper  increased,  until  he  felt  ready  to 
strangle  Perron  the  instant  he  appeared.  But  no  such 
chance  was  granted  him,  and  finally,  beginning  to  feel 
unaccountably  creepy  alone  in  this  ghostly  landscape,  he 
started  his  tired  limbs  upon  the  road  again.  Let  Per 
ron  get  home  by  himself,  since  he  was  not  man  enough  to 
keep  up  with  him.  And  casting  fearful  glances  at  every 
clump  of  furze,  he  made  what  haste  he  could  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Castle  Rozkavel. 

Meanwhile,  far  down  a  contiguous  sand-lane,  the  second 
ex-ornament  of  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem  lay  at  full  length, 
his  back  propped  against  a  convenient  mound,  gazing 
up  at  the  shrouded  heavens — "laughing  to  the  Angels," 
as  the  paludieres  toiling  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  on  say 
of  the  expressionless  skyward  grins  of  new-born  infants. 
Only  half  sobered,  the  effort  of  his  relaxed  muscles  to 
battle  against  the  yielding,  crumbling  sand  had  proved 
too  much  for  him,  and  with  the  sublime  insouciance  of 
confirmed  tipplers  he  had  soon  given  up  the  struggle, 
pulled  from  his  hip-pocket  the  flask  with  which,  being  a 
man  of  precaution,  he  invariably  ballasted  himself,  and, 
tipping  it  to  the  proper  angle,  drained  it  to  the  last  drop, 

317 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Now,  as  it  happened  to  be  three-parts  full,  the  effect  was 
such  that  in  five  minutes  not  even  the  crash  of  heavy 
ordnance  could  have  aroused  him  from  his  deathlike  tor 
por.  Corpselike  indeed  was  the  picture  he  presented  in 
the  milky  mist-light,  and  a  moor-rabbit  stopped  his  scamp 
ish  gadding  long  enough  to  focus  a  round,  unblinking 
stare  on  this  fragrant  intruder  upon  his  domain,  then 
with  a  sardonic  twist  of  his  inquisitive  nose  and  a  fare 
well  flourish  of  his  white  scut,  decamped  in  search  of  more 
edifying  spectacles. 

In  the  broad  inlet  beyond  the  opening  of  the  dune- 
path  the  midnight  tide  was  rising  calm  and  quiet  under 
its  curtain  of  shifting  gauzes,  stealing  inch  by  inch  upon 
the  whispering  sand.  Gradually  the  muffled  silence  was 
broken  by  a  faint  approaching  sound  of  footsteps  crunch 
ing  slowly  along  the  stretch  of  fine  gravel  that  edged  the 
beach  in  the  direction  of  the  Fort.  It  was  evident  that 
whoever  it  might  be  indulging  in  this  belated  promenade 
was  in  no  hurry.  Indeed,  the  footsteps  paused  once  or 
twice,  for  the  time  a  man  might  take  to  leisurely  survey 
his  surroundings;  and  once  the  crack  of  a  match  scraped 
upon  metal  was  followed  by  the  smell  of  an  excellent  cigar 
oozing  through  the  mist.  The  minutes  passed.  Little 
by  little  the  vapor-gorged  moon,  a  core  of  clearer  radiance 
toward  the  west,  was  triumphing  over  her  enemy,  and 
all  at  once  over  the  edge  of  the  retreating  fog-bank  she 
cocked  one  sarcastic  eye  full  upon  Grafton,  according  to 
his  now  inveterate  habit  waiting  up  for  Lady  Clanvowe. 

Just  what  purpose  he  was  serving  he  would  have  found 
it  even  more  difficult  to  explain  now  than  earlier  in  the 
game.  To-night,  for  instance,  he  knew,  without  the  pos 
sibility  of  a  doubt,  that  his  mistress  was  safe  aboard  the 
"Kestrel,"  under  the  double  protection  of  Penruddock 
and  her  faithful  Jwala-Singh.  He  had  been  from  the  first 

218 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

striving  to  satisfy  a  warped  and  greatly  magnified  sense 
of  responsibility,  to  compliment  the  unconscious  pose 
that  marred  his  genuine  devotedness,  and  to  stifle  a  grow 
ing  sense  of  unwarrantable  curiosity,  by  telling  himself 
that  whatever  happened  he  would  be  found  at  his  post; 
but  just  now  unusual  qualms  were  disturbing  his  extreme 
self- righteousness ;  perhaps  because  the  above-mentioned 
curiosity  had  become  so  obvious  that  he  was  unable  to 
disguise  it  decently  under  an  extenuating  name ;  perhaps 
merely  because  that  very  morning  Lady  Clanvowe  had 
done  him  another  of  those  thousand  and  one  nameless 
little  kindnesses  that  the  real  aristocrat  is  wont  to  lavish 
impersonally  upon  his  or  her  dependents.  Perhaps  again, 
it  was  simply  because  during  the  past  few  hours  he  had 
had  more  than  ordinary  opportunity  to  view  his  conduct 
in  a  more  judicial  light.  He  felt,  indeed,  singularly  down 
hearted  and  uncomfortable  at  that  moment,  pacing  up 
and  down  there  beneath  the  moon,  alone  in  the  mist  with 
the  accusing  sea.  It  would  seem  that  he  had  stumbled 
all  at  once  upon  the  unpleasant  meaning  that  attaches  to 
the  word  "spy,"  even  when,  as  was  the  case  with  him,  it 
is  plausibly  allied  to  the  most  excellent  of  motives. 

At  the  same  time,  through  all  this  remorse  on  the  moral 
count,  a  strong  sense  of  personal  grievance  was  making 
itself  felt,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  inclined 
to  self-pity,  because  the  splendid  isolation  of  his  position 
in  the  family,  and  his  duty  to  his  master  and  mistress, 
forbade  him  to  ease  his  overwrought  mind  by  confiding 
in  somebody.  Now,  when  a  man  begins  to  regret  the  re 
straints  of  scruple  he  is  within  measurable  distance  of 
breaking  them.  Grafton,  in  fact,  was  bursting  with  his 
subject,  and  in  a  dangerously  communicative  mood. 

Again  he  paused,  removed  his  cigar  from  his  mouth, 
and  glanced  uncertainly  about  him.  In  a  few  seconds  the 

219 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

whole  scene  had  changed :  the  mist,  with  the  sluggish  and 
fitful  breeze,  newly  risen,  was  drifting  westward,  while  the 
disburdened  sea  breathed  deeply  in  her  recovered  free 
dom,  and  was,  as  the  Breton  sailors  say,  "illuminating 
from  underneath."  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  the 
calm  waters,  which  all  day  had  been  of  the  blue  of  molten 
turquoise,  were  now  rolling  every  smooth  undulation  in 
exquisite  glowworm  tints  of  frozen  fire.  The  deeps  of 
the  ocean  seemed  to  be  brewing  the  wonderful  greenish 
light,  and  everywhere  along  the  surface  tiny  flames — 
millions  of  fairy  wicks  —  sprinkled  forth,  burned  a  few 
seconds,  and  blew  out,  to  be  replaced  by  others  as  short- 
livedly  brilliant  across  the  immense  phosphorescent  mir 
ror.  The  sight  was  one  seldom  equalled  in  non-equatorial 
regions;  but  Grafton,  who  was  not  an  admirer  of  nature 
in  any  of  its  moods,  saw  in  it  only  a  fresh  outrage — an 
other  evil  trick  of  this  heathenish  country — and  turned 
away  from  the  beautiful  spectacle  with  a  rare  and  un 
comfortable  superstitious  thrill. 

As  he  did  so  he  saw  in  a  now  clear-lit  sand-lane  running 
up  from  the  shingle  a  human  form  flat  on  its  back,  with 
arms  and  legs  a-sprawl  in  that  curiously  flaccid  fashion 
which  no  ordinary  sleeper  adopts;  and  seized  again  on 
the  instant  by  his  wildest  apprehensions,  Grafton,  who 
to  do  him  justice  was  no  coward,  made  hastily  for  the 
spot  and  bent  over  the  estimable  Perron. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  find  it  was  nobody  from  the  Fort ; 
but  then  the  question  still  remained,  what  was  the  matter 
with  the  man  ?  The  blotched,  chap-fallen  face,  the  irregu 
lar  breathing,  the  empty  flask  hard  by,  and  the  pungent, 
all-pervasive  aura  would  have  assured  most  people  as  to 
the  diagnosis.  But  Grafton,  who  liked  certainty  in  small 
as  in  large  things,  and  had  helped  sometimes  in  sick- 
nursing,  knelt  on  one  knee ;  and  discovering  the  weak  and 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

fluttering  pulse  of  profound  alcoholic  coma,  felt  all  the 
concern  of  the  Good  Samaritan  for  this  person  who  had 
so  considerately  proved  to  be  a  mere  stranger. 

"It  can't  be  merely  the  drink,"  he  soliloquized,  survey 
ing  the  disgustful  carcass.  "Perhaps  he  has  been  hit  on 
the  head  by  one  of  those  savages  about  here.  He  don't 
look  like  a  native,  anyhow  ...  a  groom  by  his  clothes  .  .  . 
an  English  one  like  as  not  .  .  .  poor  devil,  from  the  old  Hall 
on  the  hill ;  and  if  so  I  can't  leave  him  lying  here." 

His  patriotism  once  awakened  by  the  unmistakably  non- 
Breton  appearance  of  those  smart  tweed  breeches  and 
gaiters,  Graf  ton  easily  rose  to  the  occasion,  and  turning 
on  his  heel  with  surprising  quickness  for  so  dignified  a 
personage,  marched  off  in  the  direction  of  the  dismantled 
guard-house  half  a  mile  away,  which  Lady  Clanvowe  had 
caused  to  be  transformed  into  a  roomy  and  comfortable 
substitute  for  the  absent  stables.  This  was  perched  on  a 
rock  fifty  yards  or  so  from  the  little  Fort,  but  was  not  too 
difficult  of  access  even  for  carriages,  provided  these  were 
not  of  a  very  ambitious  kind.  As  a  matter  of  fact  only 
a  light  phaeton  and  a  dog -cart  had  been  brought,  and 
no  coachman  at  all,  since  the  head-groom — "Sacripant's 
nurse,"  as  Lady  Clanvowe  called  him — was  a  very  effi 
cient  and  reliable  man,  well  able  to  take  charge  of  so 
succinct  a  summer  outfit.  To  Mervin  and  his  under 
strappers  "Mr.  Grafton"  was  a  person  of  no  mean  im 
portance,  and  the  latter  never  doubted  that  he  would  find 
in  them  willing  assistants  to  convey  his  new-found  pro- 
tdge"  under  cover  and  administer  first  aid  to  the  injured. 
Great  was  his  astonishment,  therefore,  when  Mervin, 
aroused  by  repeated  poundings  upon  his  door,  flatly  re 
fused  to  bear  a  hand  himself  or  allow  his  men  to  co 
operate  in  the  rescue. 

"Hi'm  sorry,  Mr.  Grafton,"  the  worthy  head-groom  ex- 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

plained,  "but  'er  ladyship  'as  given  strict  borders  as  to 
hour  getting  acquainted  with  any  hother  stablemen  in 
these  parts;  and  since  she  'as  been  so  thoughtful  as  to 
allow  us  double  rations  of  beer  to  avoid  gadding,  it 
wouldn't  be  right,  Mr.  Grafton,  sir,  for  us  to  so  much  as 
squint  in  the  direction  of  a  comrade,  'ooever  'e  might  be — 
British  or  hotherwise." 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Mervin,"  the  irritated  Grafton  inter 
posed.  "There  can  be  no  harm  in  letting  him  sleep  off 
his  liquor  here,  on  a  bundle  of  straw,  if  he's  only  drunk. 
You  can  pack  him  off  at  sunrise  before  the  household  is 
stirring.  And  if  he's  hurt,  as  I  believe  he  is,  I'll  make 
myself  responsible  to  her  ladyship.  You  know  very  well 
she's  not  one  to  object  to  our  helping  a  fellow-creature." 

"That's  hall  very  well,  Mr.  Grafton,"  Mervin  said, 
scratching  his  sleek  head;  "but  borders  is  borders,  and 
Hi'm  not  going  to  hoverlook  mine  for  hanybody.  Hi'll 
go  with  you,  'owsomever,  and  give  a  squint  to  your  pre 
cious  corpse,  although  Hi'm  blessed  if  Hi  know  what  good 
that'll  do  either  you  or  it." 

Had  such  an  incident  happened  near  Clan vo we  Hall, 
Grafton  would  in  all  probability  have  asserted  himself  in 
a  wholly  different  manner.  But  though  inclined  by  long 
habit  to  have  his  own  way,  his  troubled  conscience  ad 
vised  him  not  to  attract  Lady  Clanvowe's  attention  just 
then  by  going  counter  to  her  slightest  desires,  and  though 
grumblingly  and  with  a  sour  visage,  he  accepted  Mervin's 
offer. 

'"Urt?"  the  latter  contemptuously  exclaimed,  as  soon 
as  with  the  help  of  a  stable-lantern  he  had  closely  in 
spected  the  object  under  discussion.  "Hi'm  surprised  at 
you,  Mr.  Grafton;  hit's  a  drunk;  an  uncommon  fine 
drunk  to  be  sure,  but  just  a  drunk.  Fancy  you  thinking 
'e  was  'urt!" 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Well,  drunk  or  hurt  or  otherwise,  he  can't  stay  here 
all  night,"  Grafton  angrily  retorted.  "If  he  was  one  of 
those  brutes  of  peasants,  well  enough.  But  seeing  that 
he  may  be  an  Englishman,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  afford  him 
some  protection." 

Mervin  stepped  back  a  pace  and  considered  his  hier 
archical  superior  with  undisguised  disapproval. 

"  Hi  wouldn't  boast  of  'is  being  one  of  hus,  Mr.  Grafton, 
that  Hi  wouldn't  if  Hi  was  you.  But  since  you're  so  per- 
tickler  about  the  beast's  precious  'ealth,  you  take  a  'old  of 
'is  feet,  Hi'll  take  the  shoulders,  and  we'll  lay  'im  as  tender 
as  a  babe  in  that  'ere  mud-sty  yonder,  where  the  coast 
guards  shelter  in  bad  weather.  Hit's  too  good  for  the 
likes  of  'im,  hany'ow." 

Grafton  turned  and  surveyed  the  small,  dome-shaped 
mud-hutch  at  which  Mervin  was  pointing,  that  strongly 
resembled  a  beaver's  lodge.  He  knew,  from  having  more 
than  once  peeped  inside,  that  there  was  clean  straw  on 
the  flooring  of  hardened  mud,  and,  satisfied  that  Mervin 
would  concede  no  more,  he  yielded — and  not  a  minute 
too  soon;  for  just  at  that  moment  there  rose  from  the 
inlet  below  a  sound  of  oars,  precise  and  regular  as  though 
the  long  blades  were  being  handled  by  man-o'-war's-men. 
Then  a  clear  command  followed,  and  the  sharp  keel  of  a 
canot  scraped  bottom. 

"You  needn't  come  any  further,  Penruddock.  Jwala- 
Singh  will  look  after  me,"  came  in  Rouanez's  prettily- 
modulated  voice. 

Mervin  and  Grafton  had  crept  into  the  douanier's  hut 
by  now,  and  were  crouching  there  like  two  school-boys 
afraid  of  being  discovered  in  an  act  of  flagrant  disobedi 
ence;  Grafton  inwardly  cursing  his  luck,  and  Mervin,  in 
wardly  also,  cursing  Grafton  for  having  led  him  into  such 
a  scrape.  Suppose  her  ladyship  were  to  come  up  by 

223 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

that  way  instead  of  along  the  beach  now!  Surely  the 
stertorous  snores  of  their  unappetizing  salvage  could  not 
escape  her  sharp  hearing,  and  then  .  .  .  !  Fortunately  for 
them  this  did  not  happen,  and  in  a  little  while  the  cul 
prits  heard  the  canot  being  pushed  off,  and  the  grating 
of  Lady  Clanvowe's  and  Jwala-Singh's  steps  diminish  and 
finally  die  away  on  the  shingle. 

"Don't  tell  her  ladyship,  Mervin,  there's  a  good-fel 
low!"  Graf  ton  actually  stooped  to  implore,  as  soon  as  he 
was  reasonably  certain  that  their  mistress  and  her  "body 
guard"  were  safely  housed. 

"  Of  course  Hi  won't,"  the  other  grumbled.  "  But  if  you 
hever  catch  me  at  such  a  gime  again,  Mr.  Grafton,  Hi'm 
willing  to  become  a  Turk."  With  which  dark  threat  the 
head-groom  marched  off,  leaving  a  thoroughly  humili 
ated  and  crushed  Grafton  to  minister  as  best  he  pleased 
to  the  limp  and  comatose  Perron. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

Fitly  you  wear  above  your  breast  of  snow 

Jewels  of  old  and  blossoms  of  to-day, 
Lights  that  the  lapses  of  the  ages  know. 

And  buds  new-blown,  and  dewy  on  the  spray. 
Of  old  your  beauty  is,  the  crown  of  Song 

Beareth  a  thousand  such  in  golden  rhyme, 
But  your  pure  essence  is  of  labor  long, 

'Tis  the  last  dream  that  witched  the  sleep  of  Time. 
Oft  has  this  loveliness  to  make  or  mar 

Burned  on  Ilyssus  or  the  elder  Nile, 
In  your  clear  wisdom  I  can  read  how  far 

Your  soul  has  journeyed  since  that  early  while, 
Then  in  your  heart  I  glimpse,  a  vision  true, 
What  never  was  before,  and  that  is  You. 

The  Essence  and  the  Vase. — M.  M. 

THE  large,  tentlike  awnings  of  the  Hotel  de  Tremoer  at 
St.  Malo  were  drawn  down  to  within  an  inch  or  so  of  the 
carven  ledges  of  its  broad  balconies,  effectually  concealing 
the  fact  that  although  the  family  was  naturally  out  of 
town — as  it  behooves  great  families  to  be  in  summer — 
yet  the  casements  beneath  their  half-lowered,  inner  silken 
blinds  were  suspiciously  wide  open. 

Inside,  the  splendid  house  was  in  its  all-enshrouding, 
warm-weather  attire  of  brown  holland  and  gauze,  much  to 
the  detriment  of  the  general  aspect,  as  the  Tremoer  paint 
ings  and  tapestries  were  celebrated.  But  the  main  draw 
ing-room  showed  signs  of  having  been  hastily  prepared 
for  some  particular  occasion,  for  flowers  in  fresh  and 
fragrant  profusion  overflowed  from  every  available  jar- 
is  225 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

diniere  or  vase,  and  here  the  priceless  tapis  de  la  Savon- 
nerie,  woven  with  the  family  armorial  bearings,  as  well  as 
the  unique  furniture  embroidered  in  small-stitch,  were 
freed  from  their  disfiguring  envelopes.  The  immense  apart 
ment  opened  only  on  the  Com  d'honneitr,  thus  making  it 
possible  to  leave  the  tall  French  windows  frankly  un 
closed  without  danger  of  detection,  and  in  the  embrasure 
of  one  of  these,  gazing  idly  down  upon  the  large  fountain 
lifting  its  complicated  sculptures  from  the  middle  of  this 
secluded  patio,  stood  Arzur's  mother,  the  Marquise  de 
Tremoer.  Tall  and  still  slender  as  a  girl,  she  carried  her 
fifty  years  with  absolute  unconsciousness,  and  had  it  not 
been  for  the  two  or  three  ribbons  of  silver  which  undulated 
through  the  heavy  chestnut  braids  wound  coronal  fashion 
about  her  proud  little  head,  a  girl  she  would  have  seemed 
almost,  so  smooth  was  the  tea-rose  complexion  and  so 
pure  the  contours  of  a  face  which  had  but  one  fault, 
and  that  too  much  habitual  gravity.  Just  now,  however, 
there  was  a  happy  light  in  her  dark-green  eyes,  vos  yeux 
d'emeraude,  as  her  ever  lover-like  lord  called  them;  and 
suddenly  she  began  to  sing,  in  soft,  rich,  mezzo-voce,  a 
ballad  of  the  long  ago : 

"Met  arru  ez  bo  ar  mandat,* 
E-touez  ar  botred  vad 

Da  dennan  d'ar  billet,  en  favcur  ar  Roue 
Doue  da  gonzolo  neb  a  digwezo  d'he !" 

The  last  line  was  uttered  with  a  little  mocking  accent, 
plainly  showing  that  the  Royalist  Great  Lady  scorned  even 
in  this  musical  trifle  the  idea  that  any  one  could  need  con 
solation  for  serving  one's  King. 

*"Mais  il  est  arrive'  I'ordre, 

(II  est  arrive)  parmi  les  bons  gars, 
(L'ordre)  de  tirer  au  sort  four  le  service  du  Roy 
Dieu  console  ceux  a  qui  il  echerra!" 
226 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Da  dennan  d'ar  billet,  en  favcur  ar  Roue 
Douc  da  gonzolo  neb  a  digwczo  d'lic  /" 

She  repeated,  derisively  scanning  the  words  again,  and 
then  paused  with  an  involuntary  start  as  she  thought  of 
her  husband  and  her  five  sons,  engaged  even  now  in  a 
precarious  Legitimistic  uprising.  A  couple  of  impudent 
sparrows  who  had  just  flown  over  the  high-gabled  roofs 
of  the  Hotel  were  loudly  quarrelling  en  the  fountain- 
margin,  and  she  bent  farther  out  to  watch  them  pecking 
viciously  at  each  other.  "Street  rowdies,"  she  mur 
mured,  with  an  amused  laugh,  "but  they  are  plucky  lit 
tle  devils!"  And  so  absorbed  was  she  that  she  failed  to 
hear  a  door  swing  open  behind  her  and  a  quick  footstep 
on  the  thick  carpet. 

"Caught  you  spying,  too!"  Arzur's  gay  voice  rang  out, 
as  he  threw  his  arms  around  her  slim  waist  and  kissed  her 
pretty  little  ear. 

"You  frightened  me!"  she  cried,  half  angrily.  "You 
know  I  don't  much  like  those  pleasantries."  But  her 
eyes  were  already  relenting  as  she  looked  up  at  her  stal 
wart  last-born — her  Benjamin. 

"You  frightened,  M'man?  That's  what  I'll  never  be 
lieve,"  the  lad  expostulated.  "You're  the  bravest  sol 
dier  of  us  all.  It's  you  who  should  be  Rouanez's  chief  of 
staff  instead  of  any  of  us." 

"You  call  her  Rouanez  ?"  Madame  de  Tremoer  inquired. 

"Oh!  Not  to  her  face,  of  course,  although  I'm  often 
tempted  to  do  so.  She's  such  a  gamin,"  Arzur  impudent 
ly  declared,  his  dark  eyes  dancing  with  mischief.  "We're 
all  in  love  with  her,  M'man,  including  P'pa  himself.  If 
I  were  you  I'd  look  out." 

The  Marquise  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  My  poor  baby," 
she  remonstrated,  "when  will  you  begin  to  be  serious? 
Surely  the  time  has  come  to  try." 

227 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It's  now,  on  the  contrary,  that  we  feel 
like  being  merry.  Has  Grandpere  already  come  ?  There's 
one  who's  jolly  —  Grandpere,  in  spite  of  his  seventy-six 
years;  you  and  he  resemble  each  other  as  much  as  two 
raindrops." 

"No,  he  has  not  arrived  yet;  I  don't  expect  him  till 
after  dark;  a  little  while  only  before  the  others." 

"And  they  will  be  here  when — the  others?" 

"You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  Just  before  your  be 
loved  Rouanez  and  her  .  .  .  guest." 

"What  a  lark  it  will  be!  We  are  getting  on  famously 
M'man,  aren't  we  ?  I  wish  it  wasn't  risky  to  go  for  a  tour 
on  the  promenade.  Perhaps  I'd  meet  our  worthy  Mayor, 
which  would  give  me  an  opportunity  of  staring  solemnly 
at  him.  Poor  man!  if  he  only  guessed  what  a  coup 
he  could  make  here  to-night!"  Arzur  jubilated,  dancing 
a  spirited  pas-seul  all  around  his  mother.  "My  Lady 
Clanvowe,  the  wife  of  the  illustrious  British  diplomat,  sailed 
into  St.  Malo  harbor  on  her  palatial  yacht  'Kestrel '  last  night 
to  visit  our  ancient  city,  always  so  fascinating  to  foreigners. 
Accompanying  her  was  her  husband's  relative,  Lord  Alpaca, 
equally  interested  with  herself  in  antiquities."  He  inter 
rupted  his  corybantic  exercises  to  declare,  pompously: 
"That's  what  we  may  read  to-morrow  morning  in  the 
columns  of  the  Petit  Malouin." 

"Oh,  Arzur!"  Madame  de  Tremoer  exclaimed.  "Lord 
Alpaca!" 

"Well,  isn't  his  real  and  ancient  cognomen  the  time- 
honored  equivalent  ?  You  never  appreciate  my  small  wit 
ticisms,  M'man.  I  think  '  Lord  Alpaca '  sounds  splendid. 
It  might  have  come  straight  from  the  pages  of  one  of 
poor  old  Ouida's  novels." 

"I  do  hope  everything  will  go  well,"  the  Marquise  in 
terrupted,  with  a  little  frown  of  worry.  "It  would  be 

228 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

horrible   if   the   meeting   were    discovered   here   in   our 
house." 

"We  would  have  to  stand  a  siege,  like  Fort  Chabrol, 
and  defend  Lord  Alpaca  to  the  last  ounce  of  our  blood." 

"Don't  talk  of  that  farce!"  she  chided,  really  angry  this 
time.  "It  is  unbearable  to  think  that  our  cause  was 
made  ridiculous  by  those  grotesque  people!" 

"Grotesque  is  severe,"  he  interposed.  "They  meant 
kindly,  poor  souls,  I  don't  doubt,  although  the  details  as 
furnished  by  the  press  did  not  redound  to  their  credit.  I 
can  just  remember  how  the  brothers  and  I  laughed  at 
their  sausages  and  sardines,  and  other  siege  delicacies.  I 
was  a  little  shaver  then,  but  I  remember  it  all  quite  well. 
Doesn't  it  strike  you,  M'man,  that  we — in  bulk,  that  is — 
have  not  displayed  much  heroism  until  Rouanez  and  Olier 
showed  us  the  true  road  here  lately?" 

Madame  de  Tremoer  had  seated  herself  on  a  low  otto 
man  before  the  window.  The  eyes  she  raised  to  him  were 
grave  again  now,  and  when  she  spoke  all  mirth  had  gone 
from  her  voice. 

"One  must  never  judge  others  too  severely,  Arzur," 
she  said,  slowly.  "It  is  not  death,  a  quick,  brave  death 
in  the  field,  that  has  cowed  so  many,  but  that  far  more 
terrible  thing:  exile  from  all  that  one  loves,  and,"  she 
added,  impelled  by  strict  justice,  "confiscation  of  one's 
old  homes,  too.  It  is  not  very  noble,  perhaps,  to  feel  like 
that;  but  still  I  should  like  you  to  see  the  matter  in  its 
true  light,  Arzur." 

The  lad  also  had  grown  serious,  and  drawing  forward 
a  pile  of  cushions  he  settled  his  elbow  upon  the  ottoman 
beside  his  mother. 

"You  see,"  she  continued,  "it  is  not  as  if  the  .  .  .  the 
King  had  seemed  to  expect  us  to  achieve  success  for  him. 
There  has  been  a  hint  of  laisser-aller  in  that  quarter,  too, 

229 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

perhaps,  and  this  was  not  as  encouraging  as  it  should  have 
been.  Also  of  late  years — I  mean  during  the  past  twenty 
or  so  —  several  Royalist  conspiracies  have  been  killed, 
more  by  ridicule,  unfortunately,  than  by  anything  else. 
In  1889,  for  instance,  the  list  of  so-called  Legitimistic 
conspirators  scarcely  included  a  single  old  patrician  name, 
but  was  composed  of  mere  rabble,  searchers  after  sensa 
tion,  esbrouffeurs,  people  who  had  nothing  to  risk  or  to 
lose,  while  later  on  during  Monsieur  Loubet's  term  of 
office  even  foreigners,  male  and  female,  proclaimed  them 
selves  Royalists  because  they  thought  it  looked  chic  to 
identify  themselves  with  a  movement  they  had  not  the 
figment  of  a  right  to  join.  It  was  lamentable,  and  the 
cowardly  attack  upon  the  aged  President  of  the  Republic 
by  a  band  of  crack-brained  members  of  the  'smart  set'" 
— she  pronounced  the  two  words  with  bitter  contempt — 
"did  more  to  strengthen  the  Republic  than  one  might 
think.  Such  degrading  nonsense  and  pusillanimous  ab 
surdity!  Do  you  think  that  such  people  as  ourselves  or 
the  de  Frehe"ls,  the  de  Kerdrens,  the  de  Brissacs,  the  de 
Noailles,  de  Rohans,  or  Doudeauvilles  could  identify  their 
blazons  with  comedies  of  that  kind?"  She  paused  again, 
and  a  little  more  hurriedly  resumed : 

"The  Marquis  de  Lur-Saluces — a  true  Royalist  in  heart 
and  soul,  this  one — nevertheless  took  the  precaution,  be 
fore  he  involved  himself  in  the  affair  which  brought  him 
and  other  monarchical  leaders  before  the  Senate  on 
charges  of  treason  in  1892,  of  transferring  his  estates  and 
property  to  his  brother;  and  in  this  way,  although  con 
demned  to  exile,  he  escaped  the  penalty  of  confiscation. 
We  have  not  imitated  him,  Arzur,  and  this  is  only  one 
more  reason  why  we  should  do  all  we  can  to  succeed  this 
time."  She  laughed  with  suddenly  recovered  cheerful 
ness,  and  concluded:  "I  trust  that  your  father  and  I 

230 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

would  worthily  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  emigres  of 
'93.  But  still  I  must  admit  that  I  do  not  see  you  giving 
dancing  lessons  in  London,  or  your  brothers  making  salads 
at  a  guinea  a  bowl  for  the  Guildhall  banquets." 

Arzur  remained  silent  for  a  second,  and  then  in  almost 
his  usual  bright  manner  took  up  the  joke. 

"I  would  be  a  splendid  dancing-master,  M'man;  don't 
you  think  so?"  he  asked,  smiling  up  at  her. 

"Very  probably;  but  I  prefer  to  see  you  belong  to  the 
King's  Household." 

"The  King  .  .  .  le  Roy .  .  .  with  a  ly'  and  not  an  'i,'  of 
course;  it  sounds  good,"  he  mused,  twirling  between  his 
fingers  the  end  of  her  white  satin  waist-ribbon.  "I  won 
der  whether  he  really,  really  wishes  to  be  the  King — with 
a  'y'  and  not  an  '*' — and  plant  the  dear  old  white  flag 
and  the  Fleur-de-Lys  where  something  so  different  flut 
ters  now?" 

"  Why,  Arzur!  Of  course  he  does.  How  can  you  doubt 
it  ?  He  is  a  very  brave  ...  a  very  fine  character  .  .  .  the 
fibres  have  been  ever  so  slightly  relaxed,  I  dare  say, 
by  long  waiting — long  discouragement — but  I  who  have 
known  him  all  his  life  can  assure  you  that  he  will  be  a 
good  King.  As  to  his  brother,  he  is  altogether  delicious, 
a  lovable  dare-devil,  with  the  real  Family  spirit,  the  real 
Family  features,  and  the  real  Family  manner  of  ever  so 
long  ago  ....  Oh  yes,  a  Prince  -  Heritier  de  derriere  les 
fagots.  Quite  that;  I  am  not  exaggerating." 

Twilight  was  falling,  and  the  great  room  was  slowly 
filling  with  shadows,  while  over  the  encircling  walls  of  the 
Cour  d'honneur  a  fresh  breeze  blew  in  from  the  sea,  stir 
ring  the  lace  curtains  and  scattering  the  somewhat  heady 
perfume  of  a  mass  of  white  lilies  grouped  on  a  near-by 
console. 

"Heigho!"  Arzur  said,  rising  and  stretching  himself. 

231 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"  I  must  go  and  make  myself  presentable,  M'man,  or  what 
would  Lord  Alpaca  think?  Are  you  going  to  remain  as 
you  are,  or  must  you  add  what  you  call  a  few  touches?" 

"I'll  remain  as  I  am,  without  any  touches  at  all.  Don't 
you  think  this  well  enough?" 

He  caught  her  little  hands,  drew  her  to  her  feet,  and 
in  the  failing  gray  and  golden  light  gravely  examined  the 
exquisite  lace  Princess  gown,  clasped  across  the  breast 
by  one  single  large  diamond  Fleur-de-Lys. 

"I  hadn't  seen  you  well!"  he  cried.  "You  are  perfect 
.  .  .  perfect  as  you  always  are;  and  Lord  Alpaca  will  rinse 
his  eye  when  he  sees  you." 

The  Marquise  looked  imploringly  at  him.  "Please, 
please,  Arzur.  Do  be  correct — this  evening  at  least!  Re 
member  you  are  a  Royalist  leader  now."  A  little  faint 
smile  quivered  on  her  lips,  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  be  im- 
impressive,  and  the  lad,  detecting  it,  burst  forthwith  into 
the  Chceur  des  Conspirateurs,  mincing  his  way  toward 
the  door  in  an  inimitably  comic  fashion,  keeping  time  to 
the  music  with  pointed  toes,  and  holding  the  outer  seams 
of  his  trousers  as  ballet-dancers  do  their  skirts.  On  the 
threshold  he  stopped,  pirouetted,  and  blowing  a  graceful 
kiss  from  the  tips  of  his  long,  brown  fingers,  dived  head 
first  beneath  the  drooping  Louis  XIV.  baldaquin  of  the 
portiere. 

"On  dime  ce  qui  est  crdne  en  France!"  she  murmured  to 
herself,  "and  those  youngsters  are  all  ires  crane,  it  can't 
be  denied."  Then,  since  under  the  circumstances  no 
servants  had  been  brought,  she  got  up  to  light  the  few 
heavily-shaded  lamps  which  must  suffice  to  brighten  after 
a  fashion  to  -  night's  gathering,  and  to  prepare  with  her 
own  hands  such  refreshments  as  it  had  been  possible  to 
smuggle  into  the  supposedly  closed  house. 

Fortunately  there  was  to  be  no  moon,  and  as  the  older 

232 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

quarters  of  St.  Malo  are  not  as  yet  illumined  with  ultra 
modern  brilliancy,  the  approach  to  the  Hotel  de  Tremoer 
was  comparatively  speaking  safe;  more  especially  since 
the  bathing  season  brings  to  the  picturesque  little  town  a 
large  influx  of  visitors,  mostly  English  and  Americans, 
who  seek  in  the  hostelries  of  Parame,  Saint-Servan,  or 
even  of  the  newer  St.  Malo  proper,  the  illusion  of  having 
spent  a  summer  in  poetical  Brittany,  and  go  away  in  the 
firm  belief  that  they  have  seen  the  true  thing.  To-day 
these  Divroidi  *  would  unwittingly  serve  the  Legitimistic 
cause,  for  the  scanty  police  force  had  not  time  just  then 
to  look  every  new-comer  over,  and  thus,  the  darkness 
aiding,  twenty-five  or  thirty  persons  one  after  the  other 
would  be  enabled  to  reach  the  Rue  Broussais  unobserved. 

A  little  before  midnight — that  fateful  hour  equally  be 
loved  by  novelists  and  evil-doers — they  were  all  assem 
bled  in  the  shadowy,  flower-decked  drawing-room,  waiting 
for  Rouanez  and  her  party.  There  was  no  sign  of  ner 
vousness  detectable  in  those  various  sympathetic  groups, 
and  several  times  subdued  laughter  greeted  the  mordant 
sallies  of  that  surprisingly  youthful  septuagenarian  the 
Due  de  Porskear,  who,  to  believe  Arzur,  was  so  much  like 
his  daughter  de  Tremoer.  Nor  was  the  boy  far  wrong  in 
saying  this,  for  there  was  more  than  an  ordinary  resem 
blance  between  those  two,  in  character  and  manner,  as 
well  as  in  feature. 

"It  runs  in  our  family  to  remain  young  forever,"  the 
Duke  was  just  explaining  to  a  friend  whom  he  had  not 
seen  for  years.  "Look  at  Gwennolaik,"  and  he  pointed 
toward  his  daughter,  chatting  near  a  half-closed  window 
with  the  Marquis  de  Laoual.  "Doesn't  she  still  remind 
you  of  what  she  was  at  twenty?" 

*  Strangers. 
233 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"She  looks  like  a  tall  Ascension  Lily,"  the  other  said, 
softly.  "Gwennolaik  has  always  been  in  my  opinion 
the  incarnation  of  what  a  Royalist  Great  Lady  should  be. 
There  are,  by-the-way,  few  left  nowadays,"  he  added, 
with  a  little  sigh.  "I  wonder  why.  Because,  after  all, 
bon-sang  ne  pent  mentir." 

The  handsome  old  man  at  his  side  laughed.  "How 
much  real,  unadulterated  bon-sang  do  you  fancy  remains  ?" 
he  asked.  "  Machine-made,  cotton-warped  aristocrats  are 
the  order  of  the  day.  All -silk  goods  are  almost  impos 
sible  to  find  now.  And  then  the  younger  generation 
— the  feminine  younger  generation  more  especially — has 
been  bitten  by  the  demon  of  haste  and  hurry,  tinsel  glit 
ter  and  showy  sensationalism.  Women  have  no  longer 
time  to  be  well-bred;  they  must  be  in  the  front  row. 
They  automobilize  and  balloon,  and  rush  from  one  ex 
aggerated  toilet  into  another,  to  appear  in  all  sorts  of 
places  where  they  have  no  business  to  be.  In  their  ardor 
to  emulate  the  worst  of  men,  they  have  lost  both  their 
delicate  femininity  and  the  strength  and  resiliency  which 
made  the  heroines  of  Chouan  days.  But  what  will  you? 
It  is  what  they  call  progress,  with  effeminate  men  and 
hysterically  unsexed  women  as  a  result.  Still,  as  you 
say,  there  are  a  few.  .  .  .  Wait!  .  .  .  You  are  going  to  see 
presently  another  jewel  of  genuine  lustre:  a  surprising 
revival  of  the  charm  of  other  days,  plus  something  ex 
quisite,  all  her  own — Rouanez  de  Rozkavel.  And,  talk 
of  the  angels,"  he  added,  quickly  rising,  "here  she  is!" 

Between  the  pale  brocade  folds  of  the  portiere  came 
Lady  Clanvowe  with,  at  her  side,  a  remarkably  tall,  dark, 
handsome  youth,  lithe  and  straight  and  active  of  build 
in  his  tweed  travelling  -  suit,  which  commonplace  attire 
did  not  quite  succeed  in  satisfactorily  modernizing  a  face 
and  form  that  seemed  to  belong  to  another  age — a  remote 

234 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

and  very  admirable  age,  when  men  were  men,  in  the  finest 
acceptation  of  the  word. 

Everybody  had  risen,  and  Rouanez's  simple  "  Voila 
Monseigneur"  bowed  every  head  in  silent  salutation. 
Madame  de  Tremoer  had  come  forward,  and  as  the  last 
arrival  kissed  her  hand  she  looked  affectionately  at  him, 
for  she  had  dandled  him  on  her  lap  shortly  after  his  ap 
pearance  in  this  disappointing  world  twenty-four  years 
before. 

"You  have  grown  still  taller  since  our  last  meeting," 
she  whispered,  retaining  his  ringers  within  her  own,  and 
leading  him  toward  the  others.  "That's  very  nice  of  you, 
and  very  clever,  too." 

He  laughed,  "Very  clever;  why?" 

"Because  the  French,  who  are  supposed  to  be  among 
the  smaller  races,  naturally  adore  a  lofty  stature,"  she 
explained,  and,  drawing  back,  left  him  to  greet  the  rest 
with  a  deeper  expression  in  his  lingering  smile,  while  she 
herself  turned  to  Rouanez. 

"How  did  you  manage?"  she  asked  that  efficient  in- 
troductress  of  Personages.  "  Did  the  sapient  Penruddock 
notice  anything?" 

"The  sapient  Penruddock  was  satisfactorily  kept  in 
total  ignorance  of  the  honor  done  the  'Kestrel,'"  she  re 
plied,  gayly.  "But  I  must  admit  being  glad  to  have  my 
supposed  relative  here  safe  and  sound.  He  has  such  un 
comfortably  telltale  features,  and  he  is  known  all  over  the 
world — France  included." 

"Yes,  that  is  a  pity.  But  we  can  smuggle  him  out 
again  to-morrow  on  the  night  tide.  Laoual's  yacht  is 
coming  on  purpose.  Meanwhile  the  boys  and  I  will  turn 
cooks,  valets,  and  major-domos.  Unfortunately,  it  was 
impossible  to  bring  servants  or  decent  provisions." 

"Olier  is  bringing  the  last,"  Rouanez  gleefully  an- 

235 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

nounced,  "in  a  disgraceful  canvas  bag,  under  cover  of  a 
coat  negligently  thrown  over  his  arm.  Lamb  chops  in 
quantities,  and  a  lordly  steak,  and  lots  of  unimpeachable 
peaches,  and  a  mass — really  a  mass — of  cold  meats,  foie- 
grasse,  and  other  agreeable  things,  with  delicious  little 
crisp  breads,  not  to  mention — 

"Enough!  Enough!"  Madame  de  Tremoer  expostu 
lated.  "Poor,  dear  Olier!  Monseigneur  must  have  in 
herited  the  illustrious  appetites,  too,  if  he  is  to  do  justice 
to  all  this  forethought." 

They  were  both  rocking  to  and  fro  in  a  smothered  burst 
of  merriment  that  put  to  flight  all  thought  of  the  only  too 
real  gravity  of  the  moment,  when  at  the  sound  of  a  step 
in  the  gallery  outside  the  door  near  by,  they  hastened  to 
join  on  the  landing  the  sorely -burdened  Olier,  whose  ap 
pearance — much  to  his  astonishment — seemed  only  to  re 
double  their  mirth.  In  a  lew  minutes,  however,  they  all 
three  re-entered  the  extemporaneous  council-room,  their 
faces  duly  serious,  and  joined  the  group  that  had  formed 
around  Monseigneur. 

"I  do  not  see,"  the  latter  was  just  saying,  "why  we 
should  be  kept  both  out  of  the  dangers  and  the  expenses 
of  the  undertaking.  We  can  afford  —  especially  I  —  to 
pay  with  our  purses  and  persons."  This  "especially  I" 
brought  a  smile  to  every  lip;  there  was  so  much  eager 
ness  in  the  tone,  so  much  genuine  desire  to  join  the  pros 
pective  melee;  also  it  was  well  known  that  this  youthful 
Prince  was  the  richest  member  of  his  family,  having  fallen 
heir,  while  still  a  mere  boy,  to  his  august  grandfather's 
plentiful  millions.  "My  brother,"  he  continued,  "was 
deeply  grieved  not  to  accompany  me.  He  would,  I 
know,  feel  touched  to  the  heart  by  so  much  devotion  and 
loyalty.  But  naturally,  since  your  verdict  was  unani 
mous  as  to  the  unwisdom  of  his  risking  recognition,  he 

236 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

bowed  to  its  severity.  He  made,  however,  a  special 
point  of  insisting  that  at  any  rate  we  both  should  take 
up  our  due  share  in  the  enormous  expenses  already  en 
tailed." 

"Not  to  be  thought  of,  Monseigneur!"  Rouanez  said, 
in  her  quick,  decisive  tone.  "We  do  not  wish  to  begin 
by  impoverishing  our  Kings.  Besides,  the  thing  may  fail ; 
and  in  that  case  it  is  only  fair  that  the  originators  alone 
should  suffer." 

"I  do  not  see  why,"  was  the  prompt  response.  "You 
want,  it  seems  to  me,  to  take  upon  yourself,  my  Lady 
Rouanez,  all  the  fatigues,  all  the  troubles,  all  the  dangers, 
and  leave  us  ultimately  nothing  but  the  honors  of  the 
game." 

"Those  are  primordially  yours,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"Don't  you  see,  Monseigneur,  that  if  you  get  your  heads 
broken  in  the  fray,  after  emptying  your  purses,  there  will 
remain  but  a  sadly  diminished  outlook  for  the  future  of 
Royalty?"  She  had  stepped  close  to  him  now,  and  was 
looking  beseechingly  at  the  resolute  face  towering  so  high 
above  her  own.  "Please,  Monseigneur,  please  let  us  do 
what  we  have  planned.  We  wanted  to  acquaint  you  with 
all  the  details  of  those  plans,  and  writing  was  not  possible, 
since  our  main  effort  has  been  to  avoid  that  of  all  things. 
Indeed,"  she  explained,  in  a  lower  voice,  "if  the  plot  were 
discovered,  even  at  the  last  minute,  nobody  could  pos 
sibly  be  compromised;  probably  nobody  either  seized  or 
punished,  save  those  clumsy  enough  to  be  caught  in  some 
undeniable  act.  We  pride  ourselves  greatly  on  this.  No ! 
I  can  guess  what  you  are  about  to  say,  Monseigneur — you 
must  go  back  for  a  little  while.  I  know  you  don't  like  it, 
but  yet  must  you  do  it." 

His  eyes  were  curiously  softened  as  he  listened,  and 
two  or  three  times  he  moved  his  hands  restlessly. 

237 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"You  want  to  make  cowards  of  us?"  he  asked  at  last, 
with  a  queer  little  smile. 

Her  clear  laugh  was  echoed  by  every  person  in  the 
room. 

"That  alone  seems  beyond  even  Rouanez's  power, 
Monseigneur,"  the  Duke  de  Porskear  said,  dryly,  and  the 
Prince  flushed  with  sudden  pleasure  at  the  spontaneous 
homage  of  that  ripple  of  sincere  amusement  from  those 
true  connoisseurs  of  courage.  "Our  Kings  have  had 
their  faults,  some  have  had  more  than  their  share,"  the 
original  old  aristocrat  resumed,  "but  a  lack  of  pluck  has 
never  been  counted  among  them — nor  never  will.  All 
who  have  eyes  to  see  can  assert  that  even  now."  And  to 
temper  his  outspokenness  he  let  his  hand  rest  lightly  for 
a  second  upon  the  square,  tweed-clad  shoulder  on  a  level 
with  his  own. 

"Lese-MajesteT1  Madame  de  Tremoer  whispered  in  her 
father's  ear.  "Lese-Majeste"!  Vous  n'en  faites  jamais 
d'autres!  But  to  work  now " — turning  to  the  others — "it 
is  getting  late;  and  we  have  much  to  do  before  Rouanez 
and  I,  as  the  sole  representatives  of  a  weaker  and  more 
frivolous  sex,  go  and  broil  chops  and  steaks  down-stairs." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

Love,  let  us  turn  our  gaze  to  what  may  be; 

With  you  but  little  would  I  need  to  live, 
But  oh,  it  is  a  bitter  thing   to  see 

Treasures  it  never  will  be  mine  to  give! 
I  cannot  bear  to  feel  your  secret  eyes 

Dwell  on  some  beauty  closed  as  in  a  shrine, 
Knowing  that  instant  I  may  not  arise 

To  say,  "Thou  askest,  and  the  boon  is  thine." 
And  yet,  and  yet,  there  is  an  after  glow; 

Once  has  the  vision  fled  beyond  our  view, 
Almost  I  would  not  wish  it  were  not  so, 

For  then  I  could  not  bear  the  pain  with  you. 
For  you  I  could  wish  all  things,  and  befall 
The  worst,  with  you  could  meet  the  loss  of  all. 
The  Unattainable. — M.  M. 

"Ix  went  splendidly.  Not  a  hitch  anywhere,  except 
ing  just  at  the  last,  when  he  positively  balked — claimed 
that  it  was  after  all  his  right  to  be  with  us  and  help  set 
fire  to  the  fuse.  Then  for  a  moment  I  was  really  fright 
ened,  for  it  looked  two  to  one  against  getting  him  away." 

"You  can't  blame  him  for  resenting  being  sent  back  to 
the  delights  of  verdant  parks  and  velvety  lawns,  when  ev 
ery  gray  Breton  rock  and  green  Vendeen  hillock  is  already 
bristling  with  bayonets.  How'd  you  like  it  yourself?" 

Olier  did  not  answer,  and  kept  plodding  along  the 
crumbling  sands  below  the  semaphore  at  Rouanez's  side, 
his  head  half  averted. 

It  was  an  exquisitely  veiled  Breton  morning,  perfumed 
by  a  light  breeze,  which,  having  flirted  all  night  with  the 

239 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

gorse  and  heather  and  whin  of  the  lande,  was  now  hurry 
ing  oceanward  laden  with  fragrance.  The  tide  was  falling, 
and  the  endless  belt  of  red-and-gray  rocks,  bare  to  their 
weed-grown  bases,  seemed  draped  with  golden-brown  ivy, 
while  in  the  middle  distance  whole  flocks  of  sea-larks,  like 
animated  puffs  of  foam,  danced  above  the  snowy  fringes 
of  the  scampering  wavelets.  The  usually  grim  landscape 
was  smiling  indeed,  and  so  curiously  diffused  was  the 
softened  sunlight  that  the  off-shore  reefs  took  on  rounded 
outlines,  and  an  aspect  as  of  heaping  mounds  of  freshly- 
gathered  violets  floating  on  the  pale,  flax-blossom  azure 
of  the  water. 

"It  is  good  to  see,  this  old  Breton  land  of  ours,  is  it 
not?"  Rouanez  began  again,  and  she  paused  to  inhale 
deeply  two  or  three  times  before  continuing.  "Such  air 
is  to  be  found  nowhere  else." 

"No,  nowhere  else,"  he  acquiesced,  still  without  turn 
ing  his  head,  and  his  dark-gray  eyes  changed  for  a  mo 
ment  to  that  clear  blue-green  transparency  seen  only  in 
those  of  the  great  unresting  birds  of  the  open  sea. 

"You  are  pleased  to  be  laconic  this  morning,"  she  could 
not  help  saying,  a  little  irritably.  "I  had  thought  that 
this  little  expedition  in  search  of  the  commonplace  and 
toothsome  langoustes  *  of  commerce  would  brighten  you 
up;  but  not  at  all.  .  .  .  Yes,  no!  ...  No,  yes!  .  .  .  That's 
all  I  get  for  my  pains." 

"Wait  till  we  are  face  to  face  with  the  delicacies  afore 
said,  and  you'll  see  me  on  the  broad  grin,"  he  assured  her, 
in  the  tone  of  forced  banter  which  of  late  had  only  too 
often  struck  her  unpleasantly  when  alone  with  him. 
"  And  here  is  the  commodious  road  we  must  needs  ascend 
if  we  are  to  reach  the  guardian's  block-house  to-day,"  he 

*  Spiny  lobsters. 
240 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

added,  pointing  to  a  succession  of  rude  notches  cut  in  the 
scarcely  -  sloping  cliff  wall,  and  forming  a  zigzag  three- 
hundred-foot  ladder  from  bottom  to  top. 

"We'll  do  so  at  once,"  she  announced,  passing  in  front 
of  him  to  put  her  words  into  instant  execution.  Her 
short,  white  drill  skirts  were  eminently  well  suited  for 
such  work,  as  were  her  low-heeled  tan  shoes — a  foot  like 
hers  could  afford  to  disdain  stilt-shaped  size-diminishers — 
and  Olier  watched  her  mounting  easily  from  ledge  to 
ledge,  followed  by  her  scrambling  dogs,  with  a  wonder 
that  familiarity  had  never  yet  dulled. 

"Aren't  you  coming?"  she  called  back,  pausing  half-way 
up,  and  as  if  suddenly  awakened  from  a  dream  he  took 
the  perilous  steps  two  at  a  time  in  his  hurry  to  rejoin  her. 
"You'll  break  your  neck,"  she  warned  him,  resuming  the 
rough  climb,  but  she  smiled  to  see  him  reach  the  top  as 
soon  as  herself  after  all.  Neither  seemed  in  the  least  out 
of  breath,  and  following  the  bend  of  the  cliff,  they  hurried 
over  the  short  salt  turf,  studded  with  tough  little  faintly 
rose-colored  ceillets  de  falaise,  to  the  small,  square  guard 
house  where  the  telegraph  and  semaphore  men  lived. 
Thick-walled  and  massive  was  the  official  building,  flat- 
roofed  and  whitewashed  and  trim,  beneath  the  towering 
mast  whence  the  signals  are  displayed,  and  the  tiny  gar 
den  girdled  with  big  blocks  of  stone  was  kept  with  a 
minute  care  that  betrayed  the  long  hours  of  leisure  the 
two  employes  were  at  liberty  to  bestow  upon  it.  As 
Olier  opened  the  bright,  green-painted  iron  wicket  a  man 
wearing  the  gold-buttoned  blue-serge  and  gold-banded 
cap  of  his  office  came  hurrying  to  meet  them. 

"Good-morning,  Chef,"  Olier  cried,  and  Santeik,  first 
in  command  of  the  post,  gave  him  back  the  cheeriest  of 
greetings,  for  he  was  a  Breton,  too,  born  some  forty-odd 
years  before  on  the  lands  of  Kremarze. 

16  241 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"How's  business?"  Olier  asked.  "I  have  brought 
Miladi  to  choose  some  langoustes.  Got  any  freshly-caught 
ones?" 

"From  this  morning,  man  Lieutenant,"  the  ex-sailor 
answered,  "fresh  as  the  eye,  and  if  you'll  come  this 
way —  "  preceding  them  along  a  small  path  strewn  with 
sifted  gravel,  and  bordered  on  each  side  by  a  tiny  palisade 
of  firmly-planted  scallop  shells,  beyond  which  blossomed 
thickly  a  miniature  hedge  of  those  pretty  pink-and-white 
little  flowers  called  coquillages,  and  which  look  their  name. 

"What  a  pretty  thing  you  manage  to  make  of  your 
garden!"  Rouanez  said,  in  French;  for  it  was  certainly 
not  to  a  Government  servant  that  she  was  going  to  betray 
her  knowledge  of  Breton.  "It  is  as  fresh  and  dainty  as 
the  morning  itself." 

The  guardian's  good-natured  face  beamed  with  gratifi 
cation. 

"It's  our  only  amusement,"  he  murmured,  as  if  apolo 
gizing;  "and  we  have  many  idle  moments  to  give  to 
gardening,  since  of  course  we  cannot  absent  ourselves,  ex 
cepting  once  a  month  each,  for  a  whole  day.  Would  Ma 
dame  care,"  he  added,  emboldened  by  her  winning  smile, 
"to  see  our  new  baby?  My  wife  would  be  honored." 

"A  new  baby!"  she  exclaimed,  delighted.  "How  young 
is  it?" 

Olier,  smiling  at  her  way  of  expressing  herself,  fell  back 
to  let  her  follow  Santeik  beneath  a  neat  wire  arch  — 
where  a  thriving  colony  of  white  sweet-peas  displayed, 
as  Rouanez  remarked,  hundreds  of  broad-winged  little 
Breton  coiffes  fluttering  in  the  wind — through  the  white- 
curtained  glazed  door,  and  finally  into  a  white-wainscoted 
living-room  fragrant  with  dainty  cleanliness.  Everything 
there  shone,  from  the  snowy  walls  and  ceiling,  filleted 
with  pale  green  just  as  on  board  ship,  to  the  elaborately 

242 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

waxed  cherry-wood  furniture,  the  little  mantel  -  piece 
on  which  two  big,  rose-hued  conch-shells  flanked  a  great 
branch  of  madrepore  coral  brought  back  by  Santeik 
from  the  South  Sea  Islands  some  years  before,  and  the 
few  spotless  saucepans  hanging  from  brass  hooks  in  a 
corner  near  the  tiled  cooking-stove.  The  two  low,  square 
windows  opened  directly  upon  the  immensity  of  sea  and 
sky,  for  so  close  was  the  little  poste  to  the  cliff  brink  that 
from  within,  except  one  bent  clear  over  the  sill,  the  im 
pression  received  was  that  one  had  reached  the  edge  of 
the  world — the  very  last  foothold  above  eternal  and  un 
fathomable  space. 

All  this,  however,  Rouanez  noticed  only  a  little  later, 
for  she  had  instantly  gone  to  where  an  osier  cradle  rocked 
softly  to  and  fro  under  its  protecting  green-and-white 
calico  curtains.  The  young  mother  had  risen,  her  hand 
still  moving  mechanically  to  and  fro  on  the  rim  of  the 
skiff-shaped  basket,  her  pretty  face,  a  little  thinned  and 
paled  by  recent  maternity,  flushing  delicately  beneath  the 
spreading  wings  of  a  coiffe  that  might  have  been  cut  from 
the  pattern  of  those  perfumed  little  flowers,  nodding  out 
there  in  the  garden  around  their  green-painted  arch. 

Rouanez  held  out  her  hand.  "God  be  with  you,"  she 
said,  after  the  fashion  of  the  country.  "Monsieur  de 
Frehe"l  and  I  have  come  to  see  your  baby.  Is  it  asleep?" 

"Not  quite,"  Madame  Santeik  shyly  admitted,  dim 
pling  into  smiles,  and  throwing  back  the  tiny  coverlet 
she  lifted  the  little  one  from  its  downy  nest. 

"Look,  look,  Olier;  it  is  in  swaddling-clothes!"  Rou 
anez  cried,  taking  it  from  its  mother.  "It's  just  like  a 
big  Christmas  doll,  and  bronzed,  too,  as  if  it  had  already 
circumnavigated  the  universe."  She  was  holding  it  with 
instinctive  cleverness.  "A  real  sailor  -  baby,"  she  con 
tinued,  turning  to  the  father,  who  was  trying  hard  not  to 

243 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

betray  too  much  foolish  pride.  "A  Breton  sailor  -  baby — 
the  nicest  of  all!" 

Olier  had  approached,  and  was  gazing  dreamily  at  the 
small,  round  face  nestled  in  the  crook  of  Rouanez's  arm. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  softly,  "he  does  look  like  a  little  mousse* 
already,  doesn't  he?  All  the  Santeiks  are  born  sailors. 
But,  Lady  Clanvowe,"  he  added,  suddenly,  "if  you  want 
to  go  home  by  the  shingle  we'll  have  to  hurry;  the  tide 
is  rising." 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  almost  annoyed.  "All  right, 
go  and  choose  those  langoustes  then.  I'll  stay  here  mean 
while."  And  as  soon  as  the  two  men  had  left  the  room 
to  go  in  search  of  the  delectable  crustaceans  awaiting 
their  fate  in  a  neighboring  shed,  she  accepted  the  chair 
Madame  Santeik  had  been  offering  to  her  for  the  past  five 
minutes,  but  without  relinquishing  the  baby,  which  she 
established  on  her  lap. 

"Has  Madame  no  children  of  her  own?"  the  young 
mother  asked,  on  polite  conversation  bent. 

Rouanez,  who  was  gently  touching  the  satiny-brown 
cheek  with  the  tip  of  one  finger,  did  not  look  up. 

"No,"  she  answered,  abruptly. 

"It's  a  pity,"  the  other  said,  "Madame  seems  so  fond 
of  them."  This  time  there  came  no  reply  at  all,  and 
taking  silence  for  consent  the  guardian's  wife  drove  her 
point  home.  "They  are  a  comfort,"  she  explained,  in 
the  slightly  sing-song  tone  of  Bretons  talking  French. 
"A  care;  yes,  but  what  does  that  matter?  All  the  time 
before  his  birth  I  kept  feeling  happier  and  happier. 
Whenever  I  went  out  to  walk  on  the  cliff  there  was  a  little 
white  bird  flitting  a  few  yards  in  front  of  me.  Oh,  I 
knew  him  well;  it  was  always  the  same  .  .  .  and  it  sang 

*  Ship's  boy. 
244 


THE    CRADLE    OF   THE    ROSE 

so  sweet!  They  do  say  around  here  that  they  are  the 
souls  waiting  to  come  and  dwell  in  the  babies — those 
little  white  birds.  And  now  I  believe  it;  because,  since 
my  Bernez  is  born  I  see  that  one  no  more."  She  paused, 
her  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  square  of  azure  framed  by  the 
window,  and  as  if  all  her  timidity  had  flown  away  like 
the  white  bird  of  legend,  she  went  on  :  "  Now  I  am  hap 
pier  still.  I  could  dance  on  the  tops  of  the  ripening 
wheat,  I  feel  so  light-hearted.  Oh  yes;  it  is  unlortunate 
Madame  does  not  know  that  joy,  because  it  is  the  great 
est,  surely.  But  it  is  not  too  late.  Madame  should  make 
a  novena  to  Our  Lady  of  La  Clarete." 

Rouanez  was  bending  so  low  over  the  now  peacefully- 
sleeping  infant  that  nothing  but  the  pompon  of  her  white 
beret  could  be  seen.  Seized  with  remorse,  the  young 
housewife  rose  quickly.  No  doubt  she  was  boring  Ma 
dame  with  her  nonsense. 

"Won't  Madame  accept  a  glass  of  something?  We 
have  a  nice  cool  well,  and  with  a  drop  of  red  wine  to  cor 
rupt  the  water — " 

This  hospitable  offer,  coming  on  top  of  the  rest,  nearly 
ripped  apart  the  last  shreds  of  poor  Rouanez's  self-control. 

"No,  no,  I  must  be  off.  Thank  you  ever  so  much," 
she  exclaimed,  hurriedly  relinquishing  the  little  bundle 
she  had  held  with  such  curious  tenderness.  Then,  slip 
ping  her  fingers  inside  her  collar,  she  drew  out  a  thin 
gold  chain,  to  which  was  attached  a  pearl-rimmed  enamel 
medal,  and  hastily  put  it  about  the  baby's  neck.  "That 
may  bring  him  luck,"  she  murmured,  and  was  out  of  the 
house  before  the  enraptured  mother  could  utter  a  word 
of  thanks. 

Outside  the  garden  wall  Olier  and  Santeik  were  endeav 
oring  to  overpower  two  superb  blue-armored  langoustes, 
and  to  thrust  them  into  a  reed  basket;  so  she  crossed 

245 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

over  to  the  iron  -  stanchioned  foot  of  the  semaphore- 
mast.  The  swaying  rope-ladder,  with  its  gleaming  rungs 
and  thick  hempen  uprights  narrowing  gradually  in  per 
spective  as  they  climbed  higher  and  higher  toward  the 
tiny  round  platform  away  up  there  in  the  sky,  interested 
her.  What  a  view  one  must  have  from  that  point !  Her 
mood  was  odd  and  unsettled  just  then,  and  in  another 
instant  she  was  running  up,  sailor  fashion,  her  white 
skirts  too  snugly  fitted  to  flutter  in  the  wind,  and  her 
light  form  scarcely  causing  the  ladder  designed  for  heavy 
men  even  to  swing.  From  the  middle  of  the  "main-top," 
as  Santeik  called  it,  another  mast,  slender  as  a  flag-pole, 
rose,  and  as  soon  as  her  foot  had  touched  the  boards  she 
clasped  this  lightly  with  one  arm  and  looked  out  to  sea. 
More  than  four  hundred  feet  below  a  flock  of  gulls  showed 
smaller  than  a  handful  of  petals  fluttering  above  the 
water,  and  even  Feal  and  Furbuen,  sagely  awaiting  her 
on  the  sun-tanned  grass  of  the  cliff-edge,  seemed  humil- 
iatingly  diminished,  while  Olier,  Santeik,  and  Kerlaz,  the 
other  guardian,  still  bending  over  their  laughable  task, 
looked  like  marionettes  from  that  distance. 

But  all  at  once  the  fun  was  driven  out  of  them  by  a 
startled  exclamation  from  Kerlaz — a  new  recruit  coming 
from  a  distant  part  of  Brittany,  and  as  yet  unacquainted 
with  Olier — who  cried,  suddenly: 

"Look  at  your  wife,  Monsieur,  aloft  there!  She'll  kill 
herself!" 

Olier's  face  blanched,  in  spite  of  his  knowledge  of 
Rouanez's  prowess  in  the  rigging,  for  this  was  a  different 
matter.  That  sheer  depth  of  thin  blue  air  from  the  top 
of  the  mast  to  the  bottom  of  the  cliff  was  a  thing  to 
make-even  a  trained  topman  giddy  at  first. 

"God!"  he  whispered  through  dry  lips,  and,  dropping 
langoustes  and  basket,  raced  to  the  ladder,  up  which  he 

246 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

literally  flew;  the  two  others  watching  him  from  below, 
with,  as  they  later  declared,  their  hearts  in  their  mouths, 
for  that  little  white  silhouette  poised  upon  its  small, 
wavering  foothold  looked  light  and  delicate  enough  to 
make  one  dread  its  being  blown  into  space  like  thistle 
down. 

Olier  had  reached  the  last  rungs  before  it  occurred  to 
his  almost  frozen  brain  that  to  step  upon  the  platform 
without  warning  was  to  court  disaster,  and,  pausing,  he 
called  softly  and  unsteadily: 

"Lady  Clanvowe!     Lady  Clanvowe!" 

She  turned,  and,  catching  sight  of  his  face  peering  just 
above  the  scant  edging  of  oak,  laughed. 

"Come  to  see  the  view?"  she  calmly  asked. 

"No,  to  fetch  you  down,"  he  managed  to  say,  without 
betraying  further  emotion,  adding  as  she  seemed  to  hes 
itate  : 

"Please — it's  getting  late." 

Unhurried  by  the  reminder,  she  gathered  her  skirts  in 
one  hand  and  backed  quietly  toward  the  ladder.  "Go 
down  first,"  she  commanded.  And  he  obeyed;  but,  slip 
ping  underneath  the  slowly  oscillating  rungs,  risked  some 
thing  few  would  have  dared  by  descending  hand  under 
hand  on  the  reverse  side,  so  as  to  face  her  all  the  time 
and  cut  her  off  from  the  view  of  the  void.  But  she  guessed 
the  stratagem,  and  a  little  frown  of  displeasure  gathered 
between  her  eyebrows  as  she  nimbly  accomplished  her 
part  of  the  task. 

"I'm  not  overfond  of  being  treated  like  an  irresponsible 
idiot,"  she  said,  shortly,  as  they  took  ground  at  the  same 
time;  and,  turning  her  back  upon  him,  she  nodded  to  the 
guardians,  whistled  up  her  dogs,  and  sauntered  toward 
that  other  perilous  descent  leading  to  the  beach  below. 

"Not  there!"  poor  Olier  entreated,  catching  up  with 

247 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

her,  basket  in  hand.  "The  tide  has  turned  quite  a  while 
ago.  Let's  go  by  the  cliff  path." 

Unfortunately  Rouanez  was  for  once  beyond  being 
reasoned  with — in  fact,  quite  perversely  unmanageable; 
and,  ungraciously  inviting  him  to  go  by  the  upper  road  if 
he  so  desired,  continued  to  go  down  the  face  of  the  falaise, 
not  moved  even  by  the  dangerous  antics  of  her  usually 
tenderly  considered  dogs. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  Olier  thought,  meekly 
following,  though  fully  aware  that  to  return  to  Rozkavel 
by  the  shore  was  just  now  more  than  risky.  "I'll  hurry 
her  along  somehow,"  he  decided,  "if  she'll  only  let  me." 
This,  however,  he  doubted,  in  view  of  her — to  him — com 
pletely  new  and  unexpected  unruliness.  Indeed,  he  ex 
pected  to  receive  shortly  another  hint  as  to  the  wisdom 
of  minding  his  own  business.  But,  much  to  his  surprise 
and  relief,  she  began  to  talk  in  the  most  unconcerned  and 
natural  fashion  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  sands,  and 
without  making  the  faintest  allusion  to  what  had  just 
happened. 

"Give  me  the  other  handle  of  the  basket,"  she  said, 
after  a  while.  "We  can  sling  it  between  us.  I  hate  to 
see  a  man  carrying  something." 

"Excuse  me,  Lady  Clanvowe,"  he  demurred.  "And 
we  mustn't  stop  to  argue.  As  it  is,  I  am  afraid  that  we 
will  have  to  double  the  pace  if  we  mean  to  get  past  the 
point  dry-shod." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  with  a  quick  motion  of 
the  arm  caught  the  basket-handle  nearest  to  her,  and, 
grasping  it  tightly,  began  to  run. 

"One  doesn't  prevent  the  other,"  she  explained.  "We 
can  argue,  hasten,  and  share  the  ridicule  of  this  basket 
simultaneously.  And  the  dogs  are  delighted.  See  them 

go!" 

248 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Her  teasing  smile  was  irresistible,  and  Olier  gave  in  to 
this  new  mood  with  suspicious  promptness;  all  the  more 
so  since  he  noticed  that  the  feathery  crests  of  the  in 
coming  breakers  were  already  showing  above  the  sharp 
ridges  of  the  reef  which  cuts  the  shingle  in  two  half 
way  between  Rozkavel  and  the  semaphore.  Growing  in 
height  as  it  nears  the  shore,  this  reef  becomes  a  rock- 
spur,  similar  to  those  beyond  the  semaphore  near  the 
cavern  which  served  the  Royalists  as  a  secret  meeting- 
place,  and  near  the  point  where  it  merges  into  the  cliff 
proper  it  is  pierced  by  two  lofty  arches  of  so  precise  and 
symmetrical  a  sweep  that  one  might  think  some  super 
human  chisel  had  done  the  work,  rather  than  the  silky 
impact  of  water  repeated  during  uncounted  centuries.  A 
second  and  similar  spur  faces  this  one,  three  hundred  yards 
farther  on,  and  between  the  two  is  what  is  known  as  the 
"Chapel  Cave,"  although  no  trace  of  a  legend  connecting 
any  sort  of  religious  ceremony  with  it,  even  during  the 
Reign  of  Terror,  can  be  found.  It  is  a  curious  place,  this 
grotto;  for,  strangely  enough,  the  red  or  gleaming  gray 
granite  of  the  cliff  yields  the  pas  all  along  that  ledge  to 
a  deep  stratum  of  slate-blue,  almost  navy-blue,  basalt, 
profusely  veined  with  glittering  tin.  The  floor  of  the 
cave  slopes  rather  sharply  up  for  a  hundred  feet  or  more, 
so  that,  although  the  entrance  is  magnificently  high,  the 
upper  end — which,  by-the-way,  narrows  to  the  width  of 
an  ordinary  drawing-room  and  is  carpeted  with  fine,  white 
sand  —  is  comparatively  low-roofed ,  and  lies  beyond  the  ^ 
reach  of  all  but  the  highest  tides. 

Still  running,  the  two  passed  beneath  a  lordly  arch  of 
the  first  mighty  buttress,  when  Rouanez,  a  little  ahead 
of  Olier,  felt  a  drag  upon  her  arm,  and,  turning  to  see 
what  caused  it,  found  that  he  was  looking  toward  the 
further  one  with  fixed  eyes. 

249 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"What's  up?"  she  asked,  irritably.  "Something  more 
to  worry  about?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  stopping  short.  "The  tide  has  caught 
us,  and  we'll  have  to  stop  in  the  cave  for  three  hours  be 
fore  we  can  pass.  The  dogs  are  better  off — they've  got 
through." 

A  flush  of  extreme  annoyance  rose  to  her  face,  but  an 
noyance  with  herself  alone  this  time,  for  she  saw  now 
what  her  headstrong  mood  had  done  for  her.  Three 
hours  imprisoned  in  this  poetical  grotto  with  the  man 
whom  she  knew  beyond  the  possibility  of  a  doubt  loved 
her,  and  who,  although  she  was  justly  convinced  would 
never  tell  her  so,  she  had  yet  studiously  avoided  to  meet 
on  awkward  ground  since  the  night  of  the  rose-shower. 

"Can't  we  climb  up  somewhere?"  she  demanded.  "Or 
else  go  back  to  the  semaphore?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  a  trifle  abruptly.  "This  is  the  high 
est  part  of  the  shore — a  sort  of  camel's-back,  as  you  well 
know — and  the  sea  is  already  on  both  sides  of  us?" 

"Oh,  well,  then,"  she  murmured,  fighting  hard  to  re 
tain  her  temper,  "let's  wait.  It's  a  fearful  bore.  But 
grumbling  won't  mend  anything." 

"I'm  not  grumbling,"  he  was  on  the  point  of  saying, 
but  the  mere  set  of  her  shoulders  as  she  walked  toward  the 
shell -strewn  antechamber  of  the  grotto  warned  him  to 
make  no  comments.  Indeed,  the  pronounced  crunching 
of  her  little  heels  on  the  loose  pebbles  was  ominous,  and, 
bearing  the  no -longer -disputed  basket,  he  hastened  to 
follow. 

For  a  few  moments  neither  spoke.  She  had  seated  her 
self  at  once  on  a  conveniently  flat  bowlder  just  within  the 
entrance,  and  he  was  asking  himself  how  he  could  break 
a  silence  that  threatened  to  become  oppressive,  when  he 
suddenly  heard  her  laughing.  Not  mockingly  or  even 

250 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

nervously,  but  with  the  delicious  joyousness  that  char 
acterized  her  usual  laugh — by  no  means  one  of  her  least 
seductions. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  cried,  tremulously.  "And  I  thought  I 
had  conquered  all  feminine  smallnesses !  Behold  the  down 
fall  of  my  dearest  illusions! — and  give  me  a  cigarette." 

Olier  was  looking  at  her  in  such  utter  stupefaction  that 
once  again  she  burst  into  a  long,  rippling  peal  of  mirth. 

"  Please  don't  stare  at  me  like  that,"  she  gasped  at  last. 
"  I  can't  help  the  quickness  of  my  changes  of  mood.  I  was 
born  that  way — long  ago." 

It  was  Olier's  turn  to  shrug  his  shoulders,  though  he 
did  this  so  unobtrusively  that  she  could  let  the  gesture 
pass  conveniently  unnoticed.  But  she  sat  up  and  frowned 
incredulously  when  upon  her  quick,  musical  ear  fell  the 
softly  whistled  refrain  of  an  old  catch.  The  words  she 
knew  well : 

"Long  ago?     I  don't  know, 
And,  what's  more,  I  don't  care." 

Was  this  deliberate  impertinence,  or  was  the  action 
merely  unconscious  and  mechanical?  His  profile,  which 
was  all  she  could  see  of  him  just  then,  was  of  disarming 
innocence,  and  he  seemed  so  fully  occupied  with  search 
ing  in  his  pockets  for  cigarette-case  and  match-box  that 
she  turned  away  her  eyes  as  if  the  distinctly  significant 
tune  meant  nothing  to  her  at  all.  In  another  moment 
she  had  accepted  cigarette  and  light  with  the  customary 
little  friendly  nod,  delaying,  however,  as  much  as  pos 
sible  the  necessity  of  beginning  to  while  the  time  away 
by  conversation. 

Three  hours  .  .  .  that  certainly  was  a  terribly  long  spell 
under  the  circumstances,  and  she  was  just  deciding  to 
embark  upon  an  absorbing  discussion  of  their  joint  duties 

251 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

in  the  immediate  future,  when  Olier,  still  standing  beside 
her,  suddenly  pointed  to  a  spot  half  a  mile  or  so  from  the 
last  fang  of  the  farthest  reef. 

"There  seems  to  be  another  one  of  those  confounded 
weed-mattresses  floating  out  to  sea,"  he  said.  "  Of  course 
they  are  more  accountable  here  than  on  the  sand  beaches 
of  Kremarze";  but,  none  the  less,  they  give  me  the  horrors 
since  last  spring." 

"Weed-mattress?  What  are  you  talking  about?"  she 
asked,  eagerly,  glad  that  he  had  found  a  subject  of  con 
versation  for  himself. 

Intently  gazing  at  the  slowly  vanishing  stain  upon  the 
ocean's  sumptuous  blue  mantle,  he  forgot  that  he  had 
always  avoided  telling  her  of  his  narrow  escape,  and  al 
most  before  he  knew  it  he  was  relating  it  in  full. 

"It  was  no  fun,  I  assure  you;  and,  although  I  am 
thoroughly  ashamed  to  own  as  much,  truth  compels  me 
to  confess  that  it  took  me  days  to  get  over  it." 

He  was  telling  his  story  with  the  unconsciously  dra 
matic  force  of  perfect  simplicity,  and,  as  he  came  to  de 
scribe  the  grip  of  those  thousand  writhing  tentacles,  her 
hand  was  quickly  stretched  toward  him. 

"Why  did  you  never  tell  me  that  before?"  she  inter 
rupted,  roughly,  and  there  was  an  alteration  in  her  voice 
which  made  him  turn  in  astonishment.  But  already  the 
dread  of  any  emotional  situation  between  them  had  tri 
umphed,  and  her  face  was  so  calm,  her  hand  so  quiescent 
in  her  lap,  that  he  thought  he  must  have  been  mistaken. 

"Why  should  I  have  done  so?"  he  questioned.  "You 
have  had  quite  enough  coast  stories  related  to  you  lately. 
Indeed,  I  wouldn't  have  done  so  now,  but  for  the  passage 
of  this  replica  of  my  death-trap  out  there." 

"I  see,"  she  said.  "A  mere  coincidence.  And  tell 
me,  are  such  surprises  frequent  around  here?  You  see,  I 

252 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

was  a  child  when  I  left  Rozkavel,  and  do  not  remember 
ever  hearing  of  them  then." 

"Frequent?  No,  not  at  all.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they 
are  fortunately  rather  rare.  But  still  they  happen.  And 
when  one  comes  to  think  of  it — although  as  a  means  of 
decease  the  process  is  apt  to  be  tediously  slow — the  idea 
of  such  a  shroud,  and  a  final  resting-place  upon  a  bed  of 
gorgeous  sea-flowers  somewhere  below,  has  nothing  re 
pulsive  to  a  sailor.  It  sounds  pleasanter,  somehow  or  oth 
er,  than  six  feet  of  brown  earth  and  half  a  dozen  planks." 

"You  are  a  cheerful  companion,"  she  dryly  remarked, 
"and  your  views  of  death  are  interesting,  although  some 
over-particular  people  might  be  inclined  to  find  them  try 
ing.  Personally  I  do  not  object  to  them,  seeing  that 
final  dissolution — as  far  as  the  mere  body  is  concerned — 
does  not  in  the  least  alarm  me.  One  should  not  worry 
unduly  over  the  disposal  of  a  cast-off  garment." 

Olier  swung  about  quickly  on  the  rock  whereon  he  sat 
cross-legged. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Clanvowe,  but  you  must  be 
used  by  now  to  hear  me  talk  like  a  fool.  It  looks  as  if  I 
couldn't  help  doing  so  every  time  I  open  my  mouth — 
lately." 

She  pushed  the  langouste  basket  suddenly  with  her  foot, 
and  with  almost  more  than  her  usual  irrelevancy  made 
it  serve  as  a  theme  for  her  next  sentence: 

"Do  you  think  those  lobsters  are  still  alive?" 

"Not  the  least  possible  doubt  about  it,"  he  answered, 
after  a  cautious  glance  beneath  the  lid.  "They  are,  I 
can  assure  you,  enormously  wide-awake." 

"This  being  so,  we  will  liberate  them  at  once,"  she  an 
nounced,  getting  briskly  up  to  put  her  merciful  design 
into  execution.  "  Here  comes  a  fine  big  wave  to  meet 
them.  Untie  them — quick,  Olier — untie  them!" 

253 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Indeed,  the  waves  were  chasing  one  another  in  the  most 
lively  manner  up  the  steep  incline,  but  both  the  prisoners 
in  the  Chapel  Cave  knew  that  they  would  pause  in  their 
pursuit  when  they  had  approached  within  about  ten 
yards,  except  the  wind  should  suddenly  veer,  in  which 
case  it  might  be  necessary  to  pass  a  long  and  difficult 
hour  within  the  low -roofed,  narrow  niche  forming  the 
very  uppermost  end  of  that  admirable  blue -and -silver 
grotto.  But  the  wind  would  not  veer — at  least,  Rouanez 
hoped  desperately  that  it  would  not,  as  she  shook  the  two 
langoustes  into  the  fringe  of  the  wave,  where  they  stood 
stock-still,  from  astonishment,  no  doubt,  before  scuttling 
backward  after  the  retreating  freshness  of  the  water,  and 
finally  plunging  out  of  sight  side  by  side. 

"A  good  deed,"  she  said,  merrily  waving  her  wet  hands, 
from  which  the  drops  fell  like  a  shower  of  diamonds.  "A 
good  deed.  And  good  deeds  bring  good  luck." 

"If  that  is  true,"  Olier  put  in,  "you  should  be  exceed 
ingly  lucky,  Lady  Clanvowe ;  for  if  anybody  ever  had  the 
habit  of  the  helping  hand,  it  is  you." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  said,  with  so 
faint  a  tinge  of  weariness  in  her  voice  that  only  he  would 
have  noted  it.  "  Honestly,  I  think  that  it  is  sheer  cow 
ardice  on  my  part  to  pull  people  out  of  trouble." 

"Cowardice?"  he  exclaimed.  "How  do  you  make  that 
out,  please?" 

"Very  simply,"  she  retorted,  drawing  back  from  a 
spreading  hem  of  foam.  "I  cannot  bear  to  see  anybody 
suffer,  even  when  the  somebody  is  displeasing  to  me,  and 
so,  sooner  than  look  on  with  crossed  arms  ..." 

Olier  laughed.  "You  are  capable  of  risking  bone  and 
sinew  to  spare  yourself  so  ungracious  a  sight.  Your  cow 
ardice,  like  your  much-vaunted  selfishness,  is  of  a  curious 
brand." 

254 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

The  sea  was  rising  very  fast,  and  the  band  of  shingle 
between  falaise  and  ocean  was  almost  entirely  covered 
already.  Another  and  livelier  wave  came  hurtling  against 
the  jagged  block  of  basalt  that  flanked  the  magnificent 
portal  on  the  right,  and  sent  a  splashing  shower  full  in 
their  faces,  then,  with  a  musical  clittering  of  tiny  pebbles, 
slid  downhill  to  melt  once  more  into  the  foam-feathered 
green  and  blue  whence  it  came. 

An  anxious  look  suddenly  replaced  Olier's  amused  ex 
pression.  At  this  season,  and  with  the  wind  in  that  di 
rection,  the  water  ought  not  to  reach  as  high  up  as  it  was 
already  doing,  and,  seizing  the  moment  when  a  high- 
banked  comber  resurged  with  corresponding  ampleness, 
he  ran  out  of  the  grotto,  and,  springing  upon  a  rock  close 
by,  took  a  quick  survey.  Rouanez  was  herself  too  good 
a  sailor  not  to  guess  his  purpose,  as  the  little  frown  bring 
ing  her  straight,  dark  eyebrows  together  testified;  but 
she  did  not  move,  and  went  on  watching  the  ivorine  veil 
at  her  feet  bubble  itself  into  the  spongy  sand  without  so 
much  as  glancing  in  his  direction,  even  when  she  heard 
him  hastily  redescend  and  scramble  back  from  projection 
to  projection  amid  a  pursuing  welter  of  lashing  froth. 

"By  all  that  is  devilish,"  he  cried,  landing  ankle-deep 
beside  her  with  a  final  vigorous  jump,  "the  wind  has  gone 
about  without  rhyme  or  reason,  and  we'll  have  to  stow 
ourselves  away  on  that  last  hospitable  ledge  up  there  if  we 
don't  want  to  sit  up  to  our  necks  in  water  for  an  hour." 

"That's  all  right,"  she  said,  carelessly.  "As  long  as  the 
ledge  remains,  we  shouldn't  complain.  I  have  been  struck 
lately  by  the  amazing  talent  we  display  for  getting  into 
useless  scrapes.  There  is  a  guileless  imbecility  about  our 
doings  which  could  scarcely  be  surpassed." 

Olier  had  mechanically  picked  up  the  empty  basket,  and 
was  walking  immediately  behind  her  up  the  smooth  incline. 

255 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"When  I  say  we,  I  am  wrong,"  she  corrected  over  her 
shoulder,  in  the  same  indifferent  tone.  "To-day  I  should 
speak  for  myself  alone,  since  it  is  only  fair  to  admit  that 
you  made  yourself  as  disagreeable  as  possible  about  my 
selecting  this  road.  I  therefore  take  back  half  of  the 
speech  and  add  my  humble  apologies  to  the  remainder." 

He  could  not  help  thinking  that  she  looked  anything 
but  humble  as  she  swung  herself  up  to  a  seat  on  the  divan- 
shaped  ledge  barring  the  furthermost  end  of  the  cave, 
and  according  to  her  habit  began  to  swing  her  little  feet 
backward  and  forward.  Indeed,  in  anybody  else  he  might 
have  resented  a  peculiar  shortness,  almost  a  sulkiness,  of 
intonation  that  he  had  never  been  treated  to  before. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  penitently,  "to  have  made  my 
self  disagreeable,  but  I  hope  you  did  not  think  I  would 
take  my  revenge  by  saying  '  I  told  you  so ' — it's  a  cheap 
pleasure  I  never  could  appreciate." 

"I  didn't  think  you  would.  It's  too  feminine  alto 
gether  for  you.  Your  misdemeanors  have  backbone,  at 
least.  But  I'm  in  a  vile  temper,  so  don't  let's  argue  about 
anything.  Tell  me  a  sea  story;  this  is  a  fitting  scenario." 

"Why  will  you  persist  in  maligning  yourself?"  he  asked, 
warmly,  standing  on  the  fast-dampening  sand  a  yard  or 
so  from  her  throne.  "Your  tempers  are  only  the  little 
gusts  upon  the  surface.  Beneath  there  always  lies  the 
beautiful,  clear  deep  of  endless  goodness  and  patience." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  exclaimed,  a  trifle  irritably. 
"Beneath  there  always  remains  my  indestructible  bias, 
my  dislike  of  humanity,  my  disgust  of  pretty  nearly  every 
body  and  everything  that  isn't  pure  nature.  But  your 
feet  are  getting  wet,  and  the  next  wave  will  swamp  you. 
Come  up  here!" 

The  order  was  too  peremptory  to  be  disregarded,  and 
Olier,  just  as  the  prophesied  wave  came  swashing  into  the 

256 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

grotto,  leaped  to  a  place  of  safety  on  the  other  end  of  the 
ledge. 

"Agreeable!"  he  commented,  glancing  down  at  his 
white  canvas  shoes  and  flannel  trousers,  where  little  spat 
ters  of  foam  sparkled.  "Anyhow,  this  is  the  worst  that 
the  tide  will  accomplish.  In  half  an  hour  it  will  be  on 
the  turn,  and,  after  all,  it  throws  a  pretty  light  in  here, 
doesn't  it?" 

The  whole  high-arching  space  had  gradually  become 
filled  with  singularly  soft,  glauque  reflections,  mysterious 
and  charming,  that  bathed  the  dark  ruggedness  of  the 
stone  in  moving  pale  gold,  as  roller  after  roller,  trans 
pierced  by  brilliant  sunlight  from  behind,  rose  across  the 
entry,  balanced,  and  fell  thunderously,  awakening  mur 
murous  vault-like  echoes,  and  spreading  from  wall  to  wall 
a  short-lived  pool  of  troubled,  gold-shot  aquamarine. 

Apparently  Rouanez  was  not  poetically  inclined  at  that 
moment,  for  she  did  not  condescend  to  corroborate  the 
statement  by  so  much  as  an  appreciative  glance,  and,  as 
though  she  had  not  even  heard  it,  went  on: 

"It's  true,  too.  One  gets  more  and  more  exasperated 
as  the  years  accumulate.  Men  seem  with  few  exceptions 
to  be  all  selfish,  brutal,  licentious,  and  money-grabbing, 
while  women  more  than  match  them  in  craftiness  and 
egoism,  adding  thereto  coquetry,  insincerity,  mendacity, 
cowardice,  and  an  utter  absence  of  wholesome  tastes  or 
even  ordinary  moral  sense." 

Olier,  staggered  by  this  unaccountable  sortie,  was  star 
ing  helplessly  at  her. 

"Wait  till  you're  older  and  you'll  see!"  she  continued, 
truculently.  "Try  and  do  a  service  to  anybody;  they'll 
bite  you  to  the  bone  in  acknowledgment.  Lend  money 
and  you've  made  an  enemy;  give  it,  and  you'll  find  that 
nothing  but  the  sour  dregs  of  your  kindly  deed  will  be 
17  257 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

your  portion.  The  first  thing  a  drowning  creature  does 
when  you  attempt  a  rescue  is  to  try  and  drag  you  under — 
that  takes  place  every  time,  whether  in  water  or  other 
wise.  And  so  one  naturally  leaves  all  one's  illusions  by 
the  roadside,  as  sheep  do  their  wool.  Bah!  It's  enough 
to  make  one  escape  to  a  desert  island  and  pull  it  in  after 
one's  self." 

"You  do  not  look  at  life  through  rose-colored  glasses 
to-day?"  the  puzzled  Olier  hazarded. 

"When  one  begins  to  feel  the  need  of  spectacles,  pink 
is  not  the  hue  one  generally  chooses,"  she  tersely  replied. 
"I've  had  enough  of  humanity  for  a  while,  I  can  assure 
you,  and,  whatever  happens,  I  will  give  myself  a  real  rest 
after  our  great  affair  is  settled  one  way  or  the  other.  The 
number  of  people  I  have  mentally  consigned  to  the  devil 
during  the  past  years,  and  who  have  nevertheless  been 
left  on  my  hands — probably  because  the  Satanic  markets 
were  already  overstocked — is  incalculable.  I'm  tired  of 
it  all." 

She  turned  her  head  sharply  away,  and  fixed  her  eyes 
moodily  upon  the  bluish  gloom  of  the  jagged  fissure  be 
hind  them.  "He'll  not  extract  much  material  for  sen 
timentality  out  of  to-day's  conversation,"  she  thought, 
viciously,  for  her  harsh  mood  was  not  entirely  assumed. 
And  at  that  moment  Olier  leaped  to  his  feet,  made  a  des 
perate  lunge,  and  drew  her  up  and  backward  just  as  a 
mass  of  pale-green  water  crashed  against  the  ledge  and 
leaped  frothing  over  it  to  cascade  heavily  down  on  the 
other  side. 

"That  was  a  close  shave!"  he  said,  a  little  breathlessly, 
utterly  unconscious  that  his  arm  was  still  about  her  shoul 
ders  and  that  he  was  holding  her  close  to  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  admitted,  in  a  voice  suddenly  calm  and  even, 
"it  was." 

258 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

She  quietly  disengaged  herself,  bent  over  to  watch  the 
wave  slide  tumultuously  out  of  the  cave,  and  then,  as 
coolly  as  if  the  whole  incident  had  been  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  stepped  back  into  the  crevice  and 
began  to  climb  between  its  narrowing  walls  upon  the  in 
equalities  of  the  dusky  rock. 

"I  don't  think,"  she  called  out  to  him,  "that  the  water 
will  follow  us  here,  and,  as  you  say,  the  tide  is  on  the  turn. 
Still,  I  did  not  expect  it  would  have  done  quite  as  much 
as  it  has." 

"Neither  did  I,"  he  muttered,  with  an  angry  glance  at 
the  sea,  dancing  beyond  the  lowering  archway  in  its  gold 
and  azure  gala -robe.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
unwelcome  to  him  than  the  awkwardness  of  these  hours, 
and  he  set  his  teeth  as  he  rejoined  her  in  two  bounds  up 
the  uncomfortably  narrow  couloir.  There  certainly  was 
no  sense  in  being  thus  imprisoned  together,  he  reflected 
bitterly.  Matters  were  difficult  enough  for  him  without 
such  uncalled-for  complications,  and,  raising  his  eyes  as  if 
looking  for  a  means  of  escape  toward  the  slanting  flue- 
like  shaft  of  the  crevice,  he  suddenly  gave  an  incredulous 
exclamation : 

"Can  this  be  light?  See,  Lady  Clanvowe!  Don't  you 
notice  a  bit  of  imitation  sunshine  far  up  there?" 

She  slipped  past  him,  and,  looking  in  the  direction  in 
dicated  by  his  pointing  finger,  stood  for  a  minute  without 
speaking. 

"Yes,"  she  said  at  last.  "But  not  imitation;  the  real 
thing  shining  through  underbrush  of  some  sort — broom 
or  blackberry  bushes.  It  may  be  another  way  out.  But 
in  that  case  it  is  queer  smugglers  didn't  discover  it  and 
make  it  practicable  long  ago." 

"Too  near  the  semaphore,"  he  explained.  "It  is  still 
more  extraordinary  that  I  never  discovered  it  myself. 

259 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

I've  been  a  long  way  up  this  chimney  several  times  as  a 
boy,  and  yet  I  never  saw  the  least  gleam  of  light  ahead, 
or  anything  to  tempt  me  farther.  Perhaps  it  was  then 
completely  overgrown  at  the  top.  Wait  here,  please.  I'll 
investigate." 

She  drew  back  against  the  rock-wall  to  let  him  pass 
on,  and,  herself  standing  on  a  broad  projecting  knob, 
watched  him  climb  further  and  further  up  and  in. 

"Good  boy!"  she  murmured,  softly.  "Good,  honest 
boy!"  And  there  was  a  very  tender  little  smile  on  her 
lips. 

In  a  comparatively  short  time  he  was  there  again, 
grimy  and  slightly  dishevelled,  but  with  an  expression  of 
relief  on  his  handsome  face  which  she  read  as  plainly  as 
if  he  had  spoken. 

"There  is  a  way,"  he  said,  almost  gayly.  "It  is  not 
easy,  nor  particularly  clean,  either.  But  if  you  don't  mind 
spoiling  your  dress  we  can  try  it.  Else  we  shall  be  here 
another  hour  and  a  half  at  least." 

"God  forbid!"  she  said,  fervently,  and  then  hoped  he 
had  not  heard  this  candidly  rude  remark,  for  he  was  al 
ready  preceding  her  into  what,  now  that  she  had  entered 
the  cleft  behind  him,  was  almost  total  darkness. 

Even  to  a  sailor  like  herself  the  road  was  indeed  not  an 
easy  one,  and  Olier,  who  had  just  gone  over  it,  wished  he 
could  facilitate  it  for  her,  but  wisely  forbore  to  say  so. 
However,  though  scratched  and  somewhat  bruised,  they 
managed  at  last  to  reach  the  long,  narrow  outlet,  concealed, 
as  Rouanez  had  surmised,  by  a  thick  patch  of  broom  and 
a  sort  of  evergreen  bush  which  bears  so  unequivocal  a 
name  in  Breton  and  French  alike  that  it  may  as  well  re 
main  anonymously  useful  here.  Through  this  they  forced 
themselves  to  the  open  air  on  the  brow  of  the  falaise. 

"Ouf!"  Rouanez  murmured,  pushing  from  her  temples 

260 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

the  little  silver  curls,  damp  and  disarranged  by  the  rough 
branches  of  that  unsociable  bush — "Ouf!  I'm  glad  we're 
here." 

"So  am  I,"  Olier  echoed.  "But  you  are  a  wonder, 
Lady  Clan vo we.  There  isn't  another  woman  in  the 
world  who'd  have  negotiated  that  stifling  stone  ladder 
as  you  did — not  even  a  professional  acrobat." 

She  laughed  outright.  Now  that  they  were  in  the  open 
she  could  afford  to  be  herself  once  more.  "Compliments 
again?  And  as  usual  so  artlessly  conceived.  You  are  in 
curable!  But  do  you  realize  that  all  our  trouble  has  not 
been  quite  in  vain  to-day?" 

"  How  so  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  we  have  stumbled — stumbled 
is  exactly  the  word — upon  a  nearer  way  of  escape  from 
cliff  to  beach  which  is  not  to  be  despised  or  overlooked  in 
our  present  situation.  Don't  let's  disturb  this  unmen 
tionable  overgrowth  more  than  we  can  help.  It  '11  con 
tinue  to  guard  the  secret  for  us.  And  now  I  think  we 
should  try  to  tidy  ourselves  up  a  bit.  We  are  not  to  our 
advantage!"  she  added,  glancing  ruefully  at  her  torn  and 
crumpled  skirts.  "Just  think  what  the  sanctimonious 
Graf  ton  will  say  if  he  sees  me  like  this!" 

"Oh!  A  la  guerre  comme  a  la  guerre!  Anyway,  we 
don't  look  so  awful,  after  all,  especially  you.  Besides 
which,  damn  Graf  ton!"  he  concluded,  to  himself.  But 
she  heard  and  broke  into  another  laugh  as  they  cau 
tiously  edged  their  way  through  the  salt-coated  clump  of 
verdure. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Like  breedeth  like;    but  Nature  may — to  scorn  the  ages'  flow — 
Root  in  forgotten  Wrong,  or  Good  deflowered  long  ago: 
Thus  may  old  stocks  deny  their  race, — and   greet  the  laughing 

morn, 
The  fig  upon  the  thistle-spray,  the  grape  upon  the  thorn. 

Atavism. — M.  M. 

SENATOR  DULAC,  clad  from  head  to  foot  in  pale  mus 
tard-colored  English  tweeds,  which  he  deemed  eminently 
suited  to  confer  distinction  upon  the  wearer,  his  com 
fortable  stomach  held  in  bondage  by  a  truly  pastoral 
cream-hued  waistcoat,  brocaded  gayly  with  rosebuds, 
and  the  brilliant  ensemble  topped  by  a  rakish  Panama 
that  had  cost  much  and  didn't  look  it,  was  taking  a  first 
survey  of  his  new  estate.  According  to  his  lights,  he 
looked  the  complete  country  magnate,  the  man  who  is 
owner  of  the  soil  but  not  of  it;  and  certainly  no  detail 
had  been  omitted  which  could  aid  in  the  interpretation 
of  this  flattering  role,  from  the  rural  suggestions  bound 
to  emanate  from  a  scarf  of  spring-leaf  green,  whereon 
sparkled  a  bunch  of  grapes,  each  berry  a  needlessly  large 
ruby,  to  the  striped  silk  socks  and  tight  patent-leather 
pumps  encasing  his  hopelessly  flat  feet.  In  one  hand  he 
carried  jauntily  the  slenderest  of  bamboo  canes,  adorned 
with  turquoises,  and  in  the  other  a  cigar  of  expensive 
corpulence,  cravatted  with  gorgeous  red  and  gold. 

Arriving  only  that  morning,  the  over-combed  and 
pomatumed  gardens  had  already  furnished  him  an  op- 

262 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

portunity  to  display  his  lordly  authority;  and  the  bri 
gade  of  helpers  whose  duty  it  was  to  pursue  relentlessly 
every  vagrant  leaf  or  twig,  had  without  loss  of  time  been 
severely  taken  to  task  for  having  overlooked  a  cluster  of 
acorns  that  even  now  were  sprawling  unashamed  on  the 
south  lawn. 

"It  is  really  extraordinary  what  trouble  one  has  to  be 
well  served  nowadays,"  he  pompously  declared.  "Look 
at  those  calladiums;  they  are  not  set  at  equal  distances. 
I  would  bet  a  hundred  francs  that  the  spacing  is  radically 
faulty." 

"I  had  no  idea,"  a  laughing  voice  replied,  "that  you 
were  so  well  up  in  horticulture.  Your  treasure  of  a  head- 
gardener  will  have  to  look  to  his  laurels." 

The  Senator  turned  on  his  heel  and  stared  at  his  younger 
son  with  pitying  tolerance. 

"Before  becoming  a  landed  proprietor,"  he  sharply  re 
torted,  "I  took  the  trouble  of  visiting  a  number  of  justly 
celebrated  parterres,  in  order  to  see  with  my  own  eyes 
how  the  trick  was  done." 

"My  compliments!"  Pierre  Dulac  gravely  approved. 
"That  is  what  I  call  taking  one's  duties  seriously." 

"A  reproach  one  will  never  address  to  you,"  was  on 
the  elder  man's  tongue,  but  he  checked  the  impulse,  as 
he  often  did  in  the  presence  of  this  stalwart  son  of  his — 
so  diametrically  different  from  his  other  children — who 
had  a  knack  of  inspiring  in  him  a  discomfort  that  was 
frequently  akin  to  respect,  a  feeling  that  few  persons  had 
ever  evoked  in  the  breast  of  this  brazen  politician. 

How  in  the  world  this  good-looking,  straightforward, 
and  altogether  prepossessing  young  man  came  to  be  the 
son  of  his  parents  was  one  of  those  marvels  into  which  it 
is  perchance  better  not  to  pry  too  deeply ;  but  at  any  rate 
he  bore  no  resemblance,  physical  or  moral,  to  either  of 

263 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

them,  a  fact  which  should  have  filled  him  with  profound 
gratitude.  Just  then,  his  hands  thrust  into  the  pockets 
of  his  white  flannel  jacket,  his  tennis  cap  set  well  back 
from  his  forehead,  he  was  contemplating  the  Senator's  ele 
gant  array  with  ill-disguised  amusement;  the  immaculate 
pumps  seemed  especially  to  fascinate  him,  and  two  or 
three  times  he  squinted  sideways  at  them  admiringly. 

"What  are  you  staring  at?"  his  father  asked  at  length, 
in  the  faintly  uncomfortable  tone  which  no  one  but 
Pierre  ever  heard. 

"Your  escarpins,"  the  other  frankly  admitted.  "They 
hurt  one's  eyes,  they're  so  brilliant." 

"Well!  You  didn't  expect  me  to  wear  cowhide  boots 
to  walk  in  my  park  ?  That's  well  enough  for  those  poseurs 
and  starvelings  around  here  who  call  themselves  gentle 
men-farmers  and  are  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Hap 
pily  I  can  afford  to  hire  men  to  do  the  drudgery  of  my 
estates." 

Pierre  said  nothing.  When  his  father  mounted  his 
high-horse,  as  he  irreverently  called  it,  silence  was  ad 
visable,  and  he  therefore  contented  himself  with  follow 
ing  him  around  the  criticised  calladium-bed  and  down 
an  overarched  rose-path  to  the  lake.  This  lake  had  but 
lately  been  a  thing  of  beauty,  with  its  frame  of  silver  wil 
lows,  and  undulating  bordures  of  forget-me-nots,  irises, 
and  pond-lilies — a  picturesque  bit  of  nature  at  its  best, 
because  left  to  its  own  sweet  will.  Now,  however,  thanks 
to  Antoine  Flochard's  ministrations,  it  had  been  trans 
formed  into  what  real-estate  advertisers  describe  as  an 
"ornamental  sheet  of  water,"  and  with  its  newly  scraped 
stone  pier — once  velvety  with  delicious  green  moss — its 
boat-house  varnished  and  painted  like  a  Nuremberg  toy, 
it  looked  ashamed  of  itself. 

"Ha!"  Dulac  approvingly  exclaimed.  "Here  at  least 

264 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

my  orders  have  been  carried  out  properly.     You  have  no 
conception  what  a  mess  the  place  was  in  before." 

"Oh,  but  pardon  me,  I  saw  it  last  year  and  admired 
it,"  Pierre  said,  regretfully.  "Couldn't  you  at  least  have 
spared  us  the  crimson  -  and  -  gold  weather-vane  on  that 
freshly  scoured  roof  there?  Really,  the  only  thing  the 
place  lacks  is  a  row  of  mirror-glass  globes  set  along  the 
edge  of  the  terrace  on  ornamental  cast-iron  stanchions." 

"They  are  already  on  the  way,"  replied  his  father,  curt 
ly.  "I  received  the  invoice  from  Nantes  this  morning. 
An  extra  large  size,  made  specially  to  order.  One  of 
Flochard's  neatest  ideas,  I  think.  Many  of  the  improve 
ments  in  and  out  of  the  house  are  to  be  credited  to  his 
excellent  taste." 

"I  do  not  doubt  it  for  an  instant." 

"You  don't  seem  convinced." 

"Oh!     It  is  necessary  to  seem  convinced?" 

"Certainly.  Flochard  has  proved  quite  invaluable  here 
recently  in  many  respects.  He  is  a  very  remarkable  young 
man;  but  you  never  did  him  justice." 

"I  do,  my  dear  father,  full  justice,"  Pierre  said,  quietly. 
"  It  is  you  who  are  mistaken,  I  fear,  in  your  valuation  of 
the  fellow.  And  I  can  hardly  think,  for  instance,  that 
it  is  also  owing  to  your  orders  that  he  has  managed  to 
make  himself  hated  for  leagues  around,  or  that  he  has 
engaged  some  of  the  low  types  who  swagger  in  your 
stables — there  are  two  grooms,  for  instance — 

The  Senator  had  turned  slightly  away,  and  seemed  ab 
sorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  scrupulously  cleansed 
water,  shining  like  silver  over  its  bed  of  golden  sand — a 
veritable  millionaire's  lake  this,  metallic  and  costly  look 
ing,  like  the  rest  of  the  establishment. 

"How  do  you  know  that  he  is  hated?"  he  asked,  ab 
ruptly,  but  without  facing  round. 

265 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"You  must  remember  that  I  have  been  here  over  a 
week  now — long  enough  to  notice,  at  any  rate,  that  far 
from  smoothing  your  path  for  you,  the  invaluable  Flo- 
chard  has  soured  an  already  sufficiently  acid  neighbor 
hood.  The  first  time  I  rode  across  the  lande  to  Rozkavel 
village  and  Kremarze",  I  was  convinced  of  the  disgust 
with  which  our  arrival  fills  the  people." 

"They  had  better  try  and  show  it  before  me!"  the 
Senator  cried,  turning  a  surly  countenance  toward  his 
too-perspicacious  offspring.  "A  pack  of  ragged,  potato- 
fed  beggars!  I'll  teach  them!" 

Pierre  raised  his  shoulders  imperceptibly.  His  sire's 
angers,  like  his  sire's  pretensions,  left  him  cold.  But  he, 
in  his  good-natured,  light-hearted  way,  always  disliked  to 
see  him  make  a  fool  of  himself,  and  determined  to  do 
what  he  could  to  counterbalance  Flochard's  unhappy  in 
fluence. 

"You'll  scarcely  achieve  much  by  violence  with  Bre 
tons,"  he  judiciously  remarked.  "They  are  not  so  bad 
when  one  knows  how  to  take  them.  But  if  you're  going 
to  display  your  democratico-autocratic  side  to  them, 
you're  done.  If  I  understand  right,  you  are  anxious  to 
play  a  certain  role  here,  to  assume  certain  dignities. 
Well,  then,  you  should  begin  by  making  yourself  popular 
with  the  villagers  .  .  .  and  .  . .  especially  try  to  make  them 
forgive  you  your  wealth." 

"Forgive  me  my  wealth!"  Dulac  senior  said,  aghast. 
"Forgive  my  wealth!  What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"Just  what  I  say.  You  are  occupying  the  place  of  a 
man  who  is  still  remembered  here,  though  he's  been  dead 
a  good  many  years.  He  was  not  rich,  but  .  .  .  well,  I'd  like 
to  think  that  some  day  the  old  women  in  the  chimney- 
corners  would  speak  of  me  as  I've  heard  they  speak  of 
him.  Yes,  I  mean  the  Marquis  de  Rozkavel.  You  are 

266 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

more  like  the  Marquis  de  Carabas  now,  since  you  own 
half  the  countryside  already  and  are  buying  more  of  it 
every  day.  But  unfortunately  the  good-will  of  your  vas 
sals  is  not  included  in  the  bargain.  There  you  will  be 
in  need  of  a  different  kind  of  coin.  Lord!  I  speak  like 
a  financial  oracle !  But  in  any  case,  my  good  father,  don't 
listen  to  Flochard  if  you  care  for  success." 

The  Senator  was  slowly  poking  holes  with  the  end  of 
his  splendid  bamboo  in  the  shorn  velvet  of  the  bank. 
His  expression  was  extremely  sulky,  and  two  or  three 
times  he  opened  his  thick  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but  presum 
ably  thought  better  of  it,  for  during  the  space  of  quite 
five  minutes  absolute  silence  reigned.  At  last,  with  a  fa 
miliar  hunch  of  his  heavy  shoulders,  he  ceased  disfiguring 
the  smoothness  of  the  soft  emerald  grass,  and  said,  roughly : 

"  I  know  what  I  am  about,  and  I  don't  want  the  advice 
of  a  boy  with  milk  still  hanging  to  the  end  of  his  nose." 

Pierre  laughed.  "As  you  like,"  he  said,  lightly.  "I 
thought  you  wished  to  take  root  here,  though  the  soil  is 
markedly  unfavorable  for  vegetation  of  our  sort.  But  if 
you  are  going  to  be  satisfied  to  do  like  the  marionettes — 
three  little  turns  and  then  good-bye — it's  of  course  your 
own  affair.  Upon  which  I  may  as  well  draw  your  atten 
tion  to  the  fact  that  it  is  twelve  o'clock,  and  that  neither 
my  mother  nor  your  priceless  butler  like  luncheon  to  be 
kept  waiting." 

"It's  astonishing,"  the  Senator  said,  bitterly,  "how  lit 
tle  you  seem  to  appreciate  the  advantages  of  your  posi 
tion  as  my  son;  'vegetation  of  our  sort,'  indeed.  You 
make  me  sick.  D'  you  imagine  that  every  lad  of  your  age 
has  such  an  allowance  as  yours,  rides  such  horses,  or  en 
joys  such  luxuries  as  surround  you  ?  You've  only  got  to 
ask  for  a  thing  and  it's  yours,  without  doing  a  stroke  of 
work." 

267 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"  That's  something  I  have  long  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about,"  Pierre  hastily  interrupted.  He  was  quite  serious 
now,  and  all  hint  of  persiflage  had  vanished  from  his  voice. 
"You  have  been  very  generous  to  me,  and  have  afforded 
me  the  best  of  education  and  opportunities,  but  now  the 
time  has  come  for  me  to  make  you  some  return,  at  least 
in  so  far  as  I  can  do  it  by  choosing  a  career  for  myself 
and  ridding  you  of  a  portion  of  what  I  cost  you." 

The  Senator  stopped  short  and  stared  at  his  son.  The 
luncheon-bell  might  have  rung  itself  cracked  for  all  that 
these  preoccupied  people  cared. 

"What  flea  is  biting  you  now?"  he  asked,  angrily. 
"Can't  I  say  a  word  to  you  without  your  flying  off  the 
handle  like  a  lunatic  ?  Have  I  asked  you  to  do  anything 
but —  '  He  was  on  the  point  of  saying  "live  like  a  gen 
tleman,"  but  stopped  in  time;  why,  it  would  have  troubled 
him  to  explain. 

"Certainly  not.  But  now  that  my  military  service  is 
done,  I  think  that  I  should  prefer  to  be  occupied  in  some 
way." 

"And  would  it  be  indiscreet  to  ask  you  what  you  con 
sider  yourself  fit  for?  Diplomacy,  perhaps,  or — 

"Diplomacy?  No.  I  do  not  recognize  in  myself  any 
aptitude  for  poodle  tricks,  such  as  are  expected  of  young 
attaches — bow  and  scrape,  flirt  with  dowagers,  and  lead 
cotillons — decidedly  not." 

"The  army,  then?"  Dulac  mockingly  demanded. 

"The  army  as  it  is  now  in  France?     No." 

None  better  than  Senator  Dulac  knew  what  was  meant 
by  that  "now,"  and  he  winced  a  little  as  he  heard  it. 

"You  are  difficult  to  please,"  he  sneered.  "But  since 
both  army  and  diplomacy  fail  to  meet  with  your  ap 
proval,  perhaps  you  will  tell  me  upon  what  branch  of 
science  or  art  you  have  deigned  to  cast  a  favorable  eye. 

268 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Or  do  you,  perhaps,  desire  to  emulate  your  elder  brother's 
performances  on  the  Stock-Exchange?" 

His  father's  tone  was  probably  beginning  to  grate  upon 
Pierre;  for  his  silent  reply  to  the  last  proposition  was 
this  time  a  most  unmistakable  shrug  of  contempt. 

"I  see,"  the  Senator  translated,  "that  also  is  beneath 
Monsieur's  dignity." 

"Not  in  the  least;  but,  on  the  contrary,  much  above 
my  talents.  I  admire  simpler  callings,  that's  all.  In  fact, 
I  think  I  have  a  weakness  for  railroading." 

"Railroading?     Railroading  what,  or  who?" 

"Plain  freight-cars  if  necessary  at  the  outset,  and,  sub 
ject  of  course  to  your  sanction,  I  shall  start  from  the 
lower  end  of  the  profession  this  very  autumn,  and  ex 
patriate  myself  to  do  so,  if  need  be." 

"Begin  as  a  coal-shoveller,  like  an  American  million 
aire's  son?  You  are  indeed  ambitious!" 

"Eh!  Eh!  Some  of  them  have  done  pretty  well  from 
that  beginning,  or  so  I've  heard,"  Pierre  said,  in  the  tone 
of  banter  that  he  was  apt  to  employ  for  the  discussion 
of  subjects  that  touched  him  nearly.  "There  is  no  shame 
whatsoever  in  making  use  of  one's  hands,  is  there  ?  And 
I  have  no  objection  to  overalls  as  a  disguise.  It  beats  a 
Spanish  cloak  and  a  sombrero  any  day,"  he  cheerfully 
concluded,  opening  the  small  iron  gate  that  separated  the 
gardens  from  the  park  and  falling  back  to  let  his  father 
pass. 

The  Senator's  face  was  a  study.  For  many  years  he 
had  not  encountered  so  puzzling  a  problem.  That  there 
was  more  than  met  the  eye  in  all  this  he  never  doubted, 
but  what  it  could  be  he  failed  to  see,  and,  counselled  by 
the  innate  prudence  which  had  helped  him  more  than 
once  during  his  checkered  career,  he  forbore  from  pur 
suing  his  investigations  until  more  certain  of  his  ground. 

269 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"We'll  return  to  all  this  nonsense  at  a  fitter  moment," 
he  said,  gruffly.  "And  meanwhile  keep  your  noble  as 
pirations  to  yourself;  d'  you  hear?" 

Pierre  nodded  and  followed  his  perturbed  parent  up  the 
noble  flight  of  steps  leading  to  the  dining-room,  where 
Madame  Dulac  and  her  son  and  daughter-in-law  were 
already  seated  at  the  table. 

Olier  had  not  darkened  the  picture  when  describing 
the  present  chatelaine  of  Rozkavel  to  Rouanez.  She  was 
all  that  he  had  said,  and  much  more  besides,  that  he  had, 
perhaps  from  a  feeling  of  respect  for  his  hearer,  avoided 
to  mention.  A  terrible  woman,  indeed,  in  the  full  ac 
ceptation  of  the  word,  of  a  semi-veneered  coarseness  of 
body  and  mind  to  set  the  teeth  on  edge,  and  with  scarcely 
a  quality,  be  it  ever  so  small,  upon  which  to  base  a  valid 
excuse  for  her  existence.  With  money  had  come  am 
bition  of  quite  an  inordinate  sort.  But  since  money  had 
been  powerless  to  purchase  tact,  or  even  the  faintest  pos 
sible  social  polish,  she  remained  to-day  what  she  always 
had  been— utterly  unacceptable,  even  in  the  least  exigeant 
bourgeois  circles. 

The  purchase  of  Castle  Rozkavel  had  been  her  idea, 
for  she  had  imagined  that  in  this  impoverished  corner  of 
France — which  is  not  of  France,  though  that  she  did  not 
realize  —  the  length  of  her  husband's  purse  would  tell. 
Poor  Poteau  had  not  known  how  to  make  use  of  his  op 
portunities,  as  she  took  care  to  tell  her  daughter-in-law 
twenty  times  a  day.  And  when  young  Madame  Dulac, 
nee  Poteau,  who  was  not  a  bad  little  soul,  timidly  tried 
to  point  out  facts  that  had  come  under  her  own  obser 
vation  during  the  few  weeks  which  she  used  to  spend  at 
Rozkavel  every  year,  facts  that  held  out  no  encourag 
ing  prospect,  they  were  swept  aside  by  the  older  woman 
as  mere  worthless  dross.  With  her  lord's  political  and 

270 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

financial  omnipotence,  and  what  she  considered  her  own 
inimitable  savoir-faire,  she  felt  confident  of  her  ability  to 
bowl  over  those  proud-stomached  nobliaux,  and  revenge 
herself  for  the  galling  oblivion  to  which  she  and  her  amaz 
ing  toilettes  had  been  relegated  during  previous  trips 
about  the  old  Duchy,  when  accompanying  the  Senator 
on  his  electoral  visitations.  Oh!  if  she  ever  could  hold 
them  by  the  throat,  those  cold-blooded,  emotionless  men 
and  women  who  seemed  content  to  live  the  year  round 
in  their  dilapidated  manoirs,  upon  sordidly  narrow  in 
comes!  Until  now  this  pleasing  opportunity  had  not  been 
granted  her,  however;  but,  as  she  elegantly  expressed  it, 
with  patience  one  ends  by  weaving  silk  from  a  sow's 
bristles ! 

"Where  have  you  two  been?"  she  asked,  acidly,  as  her 
husband  and  son  entered  the  room. 

"For  a  little  tour  around  the  gardens,"  the  Senator 
answered,  seating  himself  opposite  to  her,  while  Pierre 
took  the  chair  beside  his  sister-in-law,  and  glanced  in 
astonishment  at  his  mother's  tea -gown  —  a  "creation" 
of  crimson  and  bullion,  which,  but  for  an  ermine  border 
and  a  few  golden  bees,  strikingly  resembled  the  corona 
tion  robe  of  the  first  Napoleon.  The  most  flamboyant 
youth  could  hardly  have  carried  it  off,  and  it  only  served 
to  show  with  cruel  emphasis  the  wreck  that  evil  years 
had  made  of  her  brutal  beauty. 

The  five  covers  were  laid  on  a  lace-bordered  cloth,  but 
on  the  silk-embroidered  centrepiece  of  doubtful  freshness 
there  was  no  flower-filled  jardiniere  or  any  of  those  pretty 
little  contrivances  of  silver  and  crystal  which  so  greatly 
enhance  the  enjoyment  of  a  meal.  Such  small  customary 
daintinesses  were  alike  unknown  to  Madame  Dulac  and  to 
the  curious  breed  of  servitors  who  in  a  long  and  loud  suc 
cession  attempted  the  taming  of  that  shrew. 

271 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"You  might  have  remembered  that  I  am  going  to  make 
calls  this  afternoon,"  she  now  said,  thrusting  a  wedge  of 
bread  so  energetically  into  her  soft  -  boiled  egg  that  a 
Vesuvian  eruption  immediately  followed. 

"Make  calls?"  the  Senator  asked,  in  astonishment. 
"But  upon  whom?  We  are  miles  from  anywhere,  as  you 
very  well  know,  and,  moreover — 

Here  he  stopped,  overawed  by  a  ferocious  frown  from 
his  worser  half  and  a  glance  indicating  the  insolent-look 
ing  butler  and  his  two  silk-stockinged  assistants,  whose 
countenances,  it  must  be  owned,  would  have  contributed 
to  the  adornment  of  any  jail,  foreign  or  domestic. 

"With  the  motor-car,  distance  no  longer  exists,"  she 
affectedly  recommenced.  "I  have  here  a  list  of  the 
chateaux  nearest  to  ours,  and  these  will  suffice  for  to-day." 

"More  than  suffice,"  said  Pierre,  beneath  his  breath, 
and  his  sister-in-law,  who  was  in  the  act  of  drinking 
claret  -  and  -  water,  choked  herself  with  disastrous  results 
to  her  sumptuous  morning-gown. 

She  was  not  pretty;  but  her  round  face  was  rosy  and 
pleasant,  and  she  obviously  deserved  a  better  fate  than 
to  have  become  the  wife  of  the  puffy,  sallow-skinned  in 
dividual  whose  name  she  bore,  and  who  for  unredeemed 
commonness  ran  a  neck-to-neck  race  with  his  overpower 
ing  mother. 

"  I  don't  see  what  there  is  to  laugh  about,"  this  pleasing 
personage  remarked,  bending  half  across  the  table  to 
reach  the  butter-dish.  His  early  youth  had  been  less 
gilded  than  his  very  much  younger  brother's,  and  had 
lacked  the  present  staff  of  footmen. 

"Agenor!"  Madame  Dulac  reminded  him;  "Jean  will 
pass  you  what  you  want."  That  distinguished  function 
ary  had  tardily  precipitated  himself,  and  was  presenting 
the  desired  lubricant  with  inimitable  condescension. 

272 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Nothing  in  particular,"  Pierre  responded,  ignoring 
the  interruption  and  looking  askance  at  his  brother,  "ex 
cepting  that  our  ladies  will  probably  find  no  one  at 
home." 

Madame  Dulac  turned  upon  the  son  whom  she  fre 
quently  described  as  a  hopeless  dolt  a  pair  of  eyes  like 
pink-rimmed  jet  buttons,  but  emitting  a  vicious  glitter 
that  no  jet,  be  it  ever  so  assiduously  polished,  could  hope 
to  rival. 

"And  why  that,  if  you  please?"  she  sourly  demanded. 

"Because  the  whole  Breton  race  is  chiefly  remarkable 
for  its  lamentable  lack  of  sociability,"  he  coolly  rejoined, 
helping  himself  to  salad. 

"Oh,  indeed!  We  must  teach  them  better  manners, 
then!"  she  muttered,  still  glaring  at  him.  "There  are 
always  means  when  one  has  the  whip-hand." 

She  would  have  said  more,  but,  catching  her  husband's 
eye,  she  stopped  abruptly,  and,  addressing  him  in  a  less 
rasping  voice,  announced  that  she  would  begin  her  tour 
by  stopping  at  Fort  Rozkavel,  to  leave  cards  at  least 
upon  that  poseuse  Miladi  Clanvowe,  who  had  so  greatly 
impressed  the  Senator. 

"You  will  decidedly  waste  your  time  there,"  the  latter 
said,  with  a  certain  grim  enjoyment.  "Your  cards  may 
or  may  not  be  acknowledged,  but  never  will  you  be  al 
lowed  to  pass  the  iron  door  of  that  little  Fort." 

A  flush  of  richest  wine-color  swept  over  Madame's  cross- 
grained  countenance. 

"That's  what  we  shall  see!"  she  said,  furiously.  "A 
creature  whom  Flochard  tells  me  is  no  better  than  she 
should  be,  and  spends  the  clearest  of  her  days  and  nights 
careering  round  the  country  alone  with  young  men.  That 
husband  of  hers  must  assuredly  have  a  wide  sleeve!" 

"If  Flochard  is  well  informed,"  the  Senator  put  in, 

18 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

austerely,  "I  am  surprised,  Anais,  to  find  you  desirous 
of  making  her  acquaintance." 

For  a  moment  Madame  Dulac  hesitated  between  treat 
ing  Monsieur  Dulac's  lead  with  the  contempt  it  assuredly 
must  deserve  as  coming  from  him,  or  returning  it  in 
accordance  with  her  habitual  virtuous  pose ;  but,  deciding 
to  do  neither,  and  speaking,  as  the  French  say,  from  the 
top  of  the  head — du  kaut  de  la  tete — she  answered,  al 
most  civilly,  to  her  audience's  extreme  astonishment: 

"Of  course,  of  course,  in  ordinary  cases  you  would  be 
right.  But  these  English  great  ladies  have  curious  ideas 
about  morality,  so  different  from  ours  in  France.  One 
cannot  judge  them  by  the  same  standards.  And,"  she 
concluded,  in  a  sudden  burst  of  frankness,  "I'm  dying  to 
see  what  she  looks  like." 

"There  we  are!"  the  irrepressible  Pierre  murmured. 
"That's  more  like  it."  And,  having  finished  his  dessert, 
he  availed  himself  of  the  lax  decorum  presiding  at  the 
Dulac  board  to  rise  and  walk  out  of  one  of  the  tall  French 
windows  opening  directly  upon  the  great  stone  terrace. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  he  thought,  "I  shall  soon  be  far 
from  all  this.  I  may  be  a  revoltingly  undutiful  son,  but 
I  cannot  get  used  to  their  ways.  No,  I  can't!"  He 
strode  wrathfully  off  toward  the  stables,  disregarding  a 
call  in  his  father's  most  peremptory  tones,  and,  kicking 
the  gravel  irritably  before  him  with  the  toes  of  his  well- 
fitting  brown  shoes,  entered  the  "yard." 

There  the  most  amiable  disorder  reigned.  The  staff 
was  evidently  dining  somewhere  in  the  basement  of  the 
great  house,  and  the  place  was  deserted.  Through  the 
yawning  doors  of  coach-rooms  and  garage  were  to  be  seen 
rows  of  costly  equipages  and  automobiles  laden  with  dust, 
their  canvas  coverings  heaped  beside  them  on  carelessly 
swept  floors,  dried  mud  adhering  to  more  than  one  set  of 

274 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

wheels,  while  the  saddlery  shelves  seemed  littered  chiefly 
with  empty  bottles  that  had  never  contained  either  var 
nish,  leather-polish,  or  blacking. 

"A  fine  state  of  affairs!"  the  young  man  commented, 
half  aloud.  He  loved  horses,  had  just  served  his  time  in 
a  cavalry  regiment,  and  he  reddened  with  anger  when, 
turning  into  the  long  stable,  he  found  the  fine  animals 
therein  contained  scarcely  groomed,  the  mangers  and 
drinking-troughs  revoltingly  grimy,  and  all  the  rest  in 
keeping. 

"Sacre  nom  de  nom!"  he  exclaimed.  "Who  is  the 
swine  in  charge  here,  I  wonder  ?  Here !  You !  somebody ! 
— is  every  one  dead?" 

Perron,  returning  toothpick  in  mouth  from  enjoying  a 
mid-day  meal,  washed  down  with  wines  that  the  butler 
reserved  for  down-stairs,  as  too  fine  to  be  tossed  down 
the  patron's  throat,  selected  this  unfortunate  moment  to 
stroll  into  the  yard,  and  was  met  by  a  stinging  volley 
of  what  for  politeness  sake  may  be  termed  "language," 
for  Pierre,  though  little  given  to  swearing,  was  by  now  in 
a  perfectly  vile  temper.  At  first  Perron,  like  Brer  Tarry- 
pin,  "sot  an'  tuck  it,"  but,  the  butler's  singularly  heady 
brand  of  after-dinner  Madeira  aiding,  his  gorge  soon  rose 
against  such  mishandling,  and  with  an  insolent  swagger 
he  delivered  himself  of  the  following  surprising  sentence: 

"Go  tell  that  to  the  right  man.  I'm  not  here  to  do 
that  kind  of  dirty  work." 

Pierre  ran  his  eyes  from  the  gaitered  legs  to  the  tweed- 
capped  head  of  the  horsy  personage  confronting  him,  and 
then  ran  them  down  again. 

"You  are  not  here  to  groom  horses?"  he  asked,  in  a 
tone  lowered  suddenly  by  amazement. 

"Certainly  not,"  Perron  calmly  declared. 

"What  are  you  paid  for,  then?" 

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THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Perron  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of  a  very  short  second. 
He  had  been  cautioned  against  revealing  to  anybody  his 
real  status.  But  here  was,  after  all,  a  son  of  the  house— a 
Dulac,  no  doubt  tarred  with  the  same  brush  as  the  rest  of 
the  pestilential  brood.  Why,  then,  let  himself  be  treated 
like  a  common  menial  when  one  word  would  take  down 
this  young  cockerel  a  peg  or  two? 

"I  s'pose  I  shouldn't  rightly  tell  you,"  he  said,  throw 
ing  a  searching  glance  over  his  shoulder;  "but  I  have 
been  engaged — that  is,  my  mate  and  I  have  been  en 
gaged — to  keep  an  eye  on  the  ci-devants  around  here. 
We're  grooms  only  as  far  as  the  rig  goes.  Yes,  sir" — 
this  in  English,  which  the  wretch  spoke  very  well,  and 
cultivated  just  then  as  in  graceful  accord  with  his  Char 
acter  for  the  time  being — "yes,  sir,  grooms  only  as  far  as- 
the  rig  goes,  I'm  happy  to  say." 

"You  are  a  spy,  then?"  Pierre  was  not  inclined  to 
mince  matters. 

"I  say,  there's  no  occasion  to  call  everything  by  name. 
I  flatter  myself  that  the  Rue  de  Jerusalem  harbors  worse 
blood-hounds  than  yours  truly." 

"Possibly.     But  is  it  my  father  who  employs  you?" 

Perron,  tempted  by  circumstances  to  wax  familiar,  un 
bent  amiably. 

"Yes  and  no.  M'sieu  Flochard  is  the  accredited  news- 
grubber,  but  you  see,  Flochard — who  between  you  and 
me  and  that  hitching-post  has  a  wonderful  regard  for  his 
own  skin — sent  for  us  to  do  his  work  for  him."  Perron 
bared  his  tobacco-stained  teeth  in  a  sly  smile,  nothing 
having  for  a  long  while  afforded  him  more  enjoyment 
than  thus  to  thrust  a  knife  between  his  superior's  ribs. 
For  Flochard  had  promised  more  butter  than  cake,  and 
now  seemed  inclined  to  hand  his  understrappers  an  all- 
too-dry  crust,  thinly  spread  with  mere  oleomargarine. 

276 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"We  were  told  to  come  here  as  grooms,  and  we  did," 
he  continued,  drawing  himself  up,  "  but  blessed  if  either  of 
us  knows  more  about  a  horse  than  to  tell  his  head  from 
his  tail  when  we  look  close  enough." 

Pierre  scarcely  listened  to  this  last  interesting  piece  of 
information.  He  was  staring  straight  in  front  of  him, 
with  wrinkled  brows,  not  able  to  make  up  his  mind  what 
to  decide.  It  would  not  do,  he  clearly  realized,  for  him 
to  give  his  father  wrong,  especially  before  this  slyly 
watching  brute;  and  yet  for  no  consideration  whatso 
ever  could  he  even  tacitly  approve  the  presence,  author 
ized  or  unauthorized,  of  a  corps  of  spies  at  Rozkavel.  Of 
course,  his  sanction  had  not  been  requested,  and  his  dis 
approval  would  be  as  effective  as  water  on  a  duck's  back; 
but  still  his  whole  honest  being  was  in  revolt,  and,  when 
he  at  last  spoke,  there  was  a  certain  quality  in  his  voice 
which  made  Perron  suddenly  doubt  the  wisdom  of  con 
fidences. 

"Does  anybody  besides  my  father  and  his  secretary 
know  your  .  .  .  profession?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"No,  Monsieur,"  Perron  replied,  without  a  trace  of  his 
former  familiarity  or  goguenarderie.  "  Leastways,  not  ui^- 
til  I  told  it  to  you  just  now,"  he  corrected,  evidently  eager 
to  conciliate  a  person  who  could  look  so  unequivocally 
fierce. 

"I'm  glad  of  that!"  Pierre  said,  raspingly.  "And  I 
trust  you  will  be  very  particular  about  keeping  the  mat 
ter  strictly  to  yourselves,  for  it  is  not  one  that  reflects 
credit  upon  anybody  concerned."  And,  whirling  on  his 
heel,  the  youngest  scion  of  the  House  of  Dulac  left  a  much- 
disconcerted  man  behind  him  muttering  uncomfortably, 
"Not  easy,  this  particulier — not  easy  at  all." 

Meanwhile  the  aforesaid  particulier  was  making  rapid 
progress  toward  home,  where  he  still  hoped  to  find  his 

277 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

father.  He  wanted  an  explanation,  and  that  at  once. 
For  broad  as  his  conception  of  the  paternal  methods  had 
always  been,  this  was  too  large  a  morsel  to  be  swallowed 
by  a  youth  whose  honorable  nature  had  always  been  more 
or  less  at  war  with  his  surroundings..  Unfortunately,  the 
Senator  was  closeted  with  the  Mayor  of  the  nearest  little 
town,  and  somewhat  cooled  by  the  delay,  Pierre  deter 
mined  to  look  further  into  the  matter  before  speaking. 


CHAPTER   XX 

Such  as  you  give  me  I  cannot  return, 

After  its  measure  must  each  heart  repay; 
Night's  altar  hath  but  twinkling  stars  to  burn 

To  the  full  glory  of  her  Lord  the  Day: 
Also  the  Sea — that  gray  as  barren  sand 

Drinks  her  deep  draughts  of  sun-warmth  undenied, 
Till  the  soft  mist  lies  like  a  hushing  hand 

On  her  unquiet  tossings  far  and  wide — 
When  the  clear  dark  her  beauty  would  disclose 

And  she  would  wear  her  royallest  attire, 
Has  but  the  sprinkled  phosphor-flame,  and  glows 

Limning  her  breaking  crests  with  frozen  fire. 
Yet  can  the  gray  Sea  chant  a  strain  divine; 
Would  that  the  fulness  of  her  song  were  mine! 

Unequal  Measure. — M.  M. 

ANGRY  and  sore,  Pierre  once  more  descended  the  ter 
race  steps  and  strode  across  the  lawn,  just  as  his  mother's 
motor-car,  containing  that  lady  herself,  in  her  most  daz 
zling  plumage,  and  her  little  daughter-in-law  almost  equal 
ly  magnificent,  whirled  down  the  avenue  on  its  punitive 
expedition  among  the  natives. 

"I  hope  they'll  be  despoiled  to-day  of  any  desire  to 
recommence,"  the  undutiful  son  muttered  as  he  reached 
a  side  entrance,  and,  passing  out  of  the  gardens  upon  the 
open  lande,  made  off  in  the  direction  of  the  shore.  He 
felt  in  need  of  a  long,  lonely  walk  to  recover  his  equanimi 
ty,  and  for  the  next  hour  or  so  he  put  his  long  legs  to  a 
severe  test.  The  end  of  this  summer  afternoon  was  mar 
vellously  clear  and  beautiful,  sea  and  sky  flew  the  same 

279 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

azure  pennants,  and  in  the  offing  a  flotilla  of  becalmed 
sardine-boats  alone  gave  a  faint  tinge  of  humanity  to  the 
unpeopled  vastness  of  Nature. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Pierre  had  visited  Brit 
tany.  Twice  before  he  had  stayed  for  a  few  weeks  with 
the  Poteau  family,  and  on  both  those  occasions  had  keen 
ly  enjoyed  himself,  having  instinctively  understood  and 
appreciated  a  land  which  admits  of  no  faint  affection  or 
lukewarmness  of  feeling  toward  itself — holding  the  bal 
ance  sternly  between  hatred  and  love.  The  path  he  now 
followed  was,  however,  new  to  him,  for  he  had  never  gone 
so  far  on  foot  toward  the  cliffs,  but  the  pungent  fragrance 
of  the  sea  was  drawing  him  on,  and  since  a  few  minutes 
a  large,  heavy  sound  rising  and  falling  on  the  light  wind  like 
sof t ,  unsteady  thunder,  and  seemingly  proceeding  from  some 
point  a  mile  or  so  ahead,  had  begun  to  arouse  his  curiosity. 

What  could  it  be?  Not  the  surf  beating  against  the 
rocks,  since  the  ocean  was  almost  as  calm  as  an  Italian 
bay  just  now;  also  the  subdued  rumble  was  neither  regu 
lar  nor  continuous  enough  for  that,  and  seemed  to  leap 
feverishly,  unequally,  like  some  hurried  gigantic  pulsa 
tion,  quite  different  from  the  placid,  soothing  throb  of 
summer  waves.  Withal,  it  was  an  insidious  elemental 
sound,  that  a  preoccupied  ear  might  long  refuse  to  per 
ceive,  and  Pierre  had  probably  been  hearing  it  for  a  con 
siderable  time  before  it  focussed  his  attention.  But  now 
he  paused  to  listen  more  at  ease.  Unable  to  decide  as  to 
its  character,  however,  he  turned  in  what  he  judged  to 
be  its  direction,  leaving  the  cliff  path  and  striking  out 
across  the  heather,  punctuated  here  and  there  by  pale- 
gray  rocks  rising  peaklike  from  mounded  gorse  and  black 
berry  bushes,  the  long  branches  of  which  wound  them 
selves  in  the  most  amazing  loops  and  knots  from  point 
to  jagged  point  of  the  rough  supporting  stone. 

280 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

All  at  once  as  he  strode  along  a  thin  human  cry,  faint 
but  piercing,  cut  through  the  mysterious  grumble,  which 
had  been  steadily  growing  louder,  and  once  or  twice  had 
swelled  into  a  hollow,  churning  roar.  It  made  his  heart 
jump,  that  cry,  coming  so  suddenly  upon  the  inhuman 
solitude,  and,  when  it  came  again,  his  feet  of  their  own 
accord  seemed  to  pick  themselves  up  and  fly,  for  it  had 
struck  the  unmistakable  note  of  agony  and  appeal.  At 
the  same  moment  he  became  dimly  aware  of  a  figure 
running  along  the  converging  edge  of  the  cliff  at  a  dis 
tance  so  great  that  it  looked  as  yet  scarcely  bigger  than 
a  large  doll,  but,  as  their  combined  efforts  diminished  the 
separating  space,  he  saw  that  it  was  that  of  a  woman 
wearing  a  white  gown;  something  white,  too,  on  her  head, 
though  certainly  not  a  coiffe.  She  was  preceded  by  a 
couple  of  dogs,  one  big  and  dark,  galloping  shoulder-high 
through  the  gorse,  the  other  a  darting,  intermittently 
seen  speck  of  white  that  could  only  be  a  bull-terrier. 

Just  then  the  mild  sunset  air  was  rent  again  by  that 
piercing  scream,  and  Pierre  caught  the  flutter  of  the  white 
skirts  flying  toward  the  cliff-point  and  the  crumbling 
walls  of  a  dismantled  little  tower,  as  he  himself,  redoub 
ling  his  speed,  raced  past  a  viciously  projecting  granite 
fang,  cleared  another  at  a  bound,  and  brought  up  with  an 
exclamation  of  dismay  on  the  very  lip  of  the  Hell  of 
Plogonak.  Not  ten  yards  from  him  the  white  figure  was 
already  crouching  half  over  the  ghastly  edge,  while  ten 
feet  below  it  another  smaller  form,  clinging  desperately  to 
a  slowly  uprooting  bush,  hung  suspended. 

"Have  you  a  rope,  or  something?"  The  breathless 
question  did  not  even  surprise  Pierre  under  these  circum 
stances;  he  instinctively  began  to  search  his  pockets  as 
if  accustomed  to  carry  there  a  few  fathoms  of  cable ;  and 
suddenly,  with  quick  fingers,  he  started  to  unwind  the 

281 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

very  long  silk  sash  he  wore,  Fa^a-fashion,  about  his  mid 
dle  with  his  suit  of  summer  flannels.  The  boy  in  such 
dire  peril  of  his  life  had  ceased  shrieking,  and  raised  the 
eyes  of  a  tortured  animal  toward  his  possible  rescuers. 

"Quick!  Quick!"  she  cried,  and  with  a  furious  jerk 
Pierre  tore  apart  the  strong  silken  fringes  that  he  had 
succeeded  in  tangling  inextricably. 

"Give  it  to  me!"  she  ordered,  without  even  looking 
at  him.  "Quick!"  And  here,  manlike,  he  tried  to  take 
command  of  the  situation. 

"Please  let  me  do  it!"  he  pleaded.  But,  half  raising 
herself  from  her  dangerous  position,  she  snatched  the 
scarf  from  him. 

"You  wouldn't  know  how.  I'll  lie  flat  over.  You  lie 
flat  behind  me  ...  on  your  face  .  .  .  hold  my  ankles,  and 
hold  them  tight!  Quick,  now!  the  bush  is  giving!" 

There  was  something  so  peremptory  in  the  quality  of 
her  tone,  joined  to  a  note  of  such  habitual  authority,  that 
Pierre  was  silenced  and  did  exactly  as  he  was  bidden. 
He  had  had  neither  time  nor  opportunity  to  scrutinize 
his  strange  fellow-rescuer,  but  when  at  this  last  moment 
she  for  a  second  glanced  up  at  him  he  was  startled  by 
the  loveliness  of  the  face  under  its  tangle  of  silver  curls, 
and  the  white  beret  tilted  backward  by  the  wind  of  her 
flight. 

Swift  as  thought  she  accomplished  her  difficult  manreu- 
vre,  while  he  conscientiously  "held  on"  to  the  trimmest 
ankles  he  had  ever  seen.  Then  he  heard  her  voice,  no 
longer  abrupt  and  impatient,  but  quietly  persuasive  and 
reassuring,  as  she  told  the  terrified  boy  what  to  do.  He 
could  not  plainly  distinguish  what  she  said,  for  the  Hell 
below  them  had  again  begun  to  growl  and  ravin  for  its 
prey  in  a  wild-beast  exasperation  that  made  every  other 
sound  indistinct,  though  in  a  second  he  could  have  sworn 

282 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

that  the  cajoling  French  syllables  had  been  abandoned 
for  the  stern  gutturals  of  quite  another  tongue.  But  this 
was  not  the  moment  for  certainties  of  any  kind,  and, 
stretched  out  at  full  length  in  the  most  undignified  of 
sprawls,  his  feet  hooked  around  a  stone  projection  of 
some  kind  that  offered  itself  conveniently  behind  him,  he 
went  on  clasping  the  silk-clad  ankles,  and  wondering  what 
degree  of  ridicule  he  was  destined  to  reach. 

"Crawl  backward  and  pull  me  with  you  .  .  .  slowly!" 
The  words  roused  him  from  his  absurd  cogitations,  and 
he  obeyed  unhesitatingly,  as  most  people  did  when  Rou- 
anez  used  that  particular  tone;  wriggling  slowly  like  a 
snake,  and  dragging  her  gently  but  continuously  along 
with  him  until  she  called  "Halt!"  and  there  was  another 
pause. 

"I  am  entirely  on  the  rock  now,"  she  announced. 
"  You  can  let  me  go  ...  then  come  here  .  .  .  quick  .  .  .  for 
my  arms  are  being  wrenched  out  of  their  sockets."  The 
voice,  notwithstanding  this  alarming  declaration,  was 
surprisingly  steady,  and  Pierre,  jumping  up,  thought: 
"Whoever  that  woman  is,  she  is  a  marvel." 

How  she  had  managed  it  all  he  never  knew;  but  when  he 
stood  up  behind  her  he  saw  that  she  was  supporting  nearly 
the  full  weight  of  the  twelve-year-old  lad  at  the  end  of 
the  stoutly  woven  scarf. 

"If  you  are  not  dizzy,  go  ...  to  ...  the  edge,"  she  said, 
a  little  breathlessly  now,  "grasp  the  scarf  below  my 
hands,  and  haul." 

Once  more  Pierre  did  just  exactly  what  he  was  told, 
without  either  hesitation  or  clumsiness,  and  in  a  min 
ute  more  the  shuddering,  gasping  boy  lay  on  the  tough 
grass  between  them,  his  livid  face  thickly  glazed  with 
sweat. 

"  What  a  tiresome  child  you  are,  Azen  Cradek,  to  give 

283 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

us  all  that  trouble !  Rouse  up  now ;  it's  all  over.  There's 
no  occasion  for  you  to  faint." 

This  easy  fashion  of  taking  things  after  what  had  just 
passed  was  so  original  that  Pierre  came  instantly  to  the 
conclusion  that  this  could  be  no  other  than  the  Lady  Clan- 
vowe  of  whom  he  had  already  heard  so  much,  and  just 
then,  too,  she  took  his  opportune  presence  upon  the  scene 
into  consideration. 

"We  are  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  she  said,  standing 
slim  and  straight  before  him,  although  he  noticed  that 
the  hands  hanging  at  her  side  were  trembling.  "With 
out  you  we  probably  would  both  be  in  there  now." 

Pierre  stared  at  the  perfect  oval  face  lit  by  those  mar 
vellous  dark-blue  eyes,  at  the  delicate  little  nose  and  per 
fect  mouth — perhaps  slightly  tremulous,  but  so  slightly 
— and  found  nothing  at  all  to  say;  while  she,  having  at 
last  a  chance  to  scan  this  tall,  square-shouldered  youth, 
of  decidedly  pleasing  appearance,  did  so  in  two  keen, 
searching  glances,  and  then,  bending  over  the  cause  of  all 
the  "trouble,"  as  she  called  it,  took  hold  of  his  collar  and 
unceremoniously  dragged  him  to  the  perpendicular. 

"Aren't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?"  she  asked.  "A 
Breton  mousse  to  first  let  himself  tumble  over  a  cliff, 
and  then  shake  like  a  woman  for  fright .  .  .  afterward,  too, 
when  it's  of  no  earthly  use!" 

"Some  women —  "  Pierre  began;  but  the  boy,  to  whose 
freckled  countenance  a  bit  of  color  had  returned,  was 
stammering  excuses  and  explanations  in  unmistakable 
Breton,  a  torrent  of  incoherent,  incomprehensible  words — 
to  Pierre  at  least — for  at  first  Lady  Clanvowe — assuredly 
it  must  be  she — nodded  as  if  she  understood.  Then  she 
turned  with  a  curious  little  flush,  of  anger  one  might  have 
thought,  and  said  curtly  in  French: 

"Get  along  with  you,  since  you  can't  speak  an  in- 

284 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

telligible  language  to-day.  Run  home  to  your  mother." 
And  in  the  most  self-possessed  fashion  she  shook  out  her 
skirts  and  again  bent  her  searching  orbs  upon  Pierre. 

"To  whom,"  she  asked,  courteously,  "am  I  indebted 
for  such  excellent  help?" 

"My  name  is  Pierre  Dulac,  and  I  am  only  sorry  that 
you  should  have  had  to  do  all  the  work,  Madame,"  he 
answered,  and  bowed  a  trifle  shyly,  for  the  almost  im 
perceptible  recoil  caused  by  his  name  had  not  been  lost 
upon  him. 

"The  son  of  the  Senator?"  she  asked  again. 

"Yes — the  younger  son." 

"Well,  Monsieur,  you  have  done  me  a  service  to-day 
that  I  am  not  likely  to  forget;  also  I  want  to  apologize 
for  my  curtness  with  you  awhile  ago.  You  will  under 
stand  that  this  was  one  of  those  occasions  when  polite 
ness  comes  last." 

"And  courage  first,"  he  said,  with  a  look  of  undis 
guised  admiration  that  had  yet  nothing  offensive  in  it, 
"first — and  last  too,"  he  concluded,  "for  your  hands  and 
arms  must  be  excruciatingly  painful." 

"Excruciatingly  is  exaggerated,"  she  smiled,  suddenly 
speaking  with  winsome  informality,  and  displaying  her 
two  little  palms.  A  few  drops  of  blood  were  slowly 
trickling  from  the  fingers  cut  by  the  collection  of  rings 
she  wore. 

"Oh,  Madame,  you  have  indeed  hurt  yourself!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  am  so  sorry." 

She  laughed  outright.  "You  are  too  easily  alarmed, 
Monsieur.  When  one  goes  in  as  I  do  for  all  sorts  of 
nonsense  one  should  discard  vain  adornments."  She 
was  sponging  the  blood  with  a  scrap  of  handkerchief  too 
small  for  the  task,  and  he  drew  from  his  pocket  an  un 
folded  one. 

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THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"May  I,"  he  ventured,  "offer  you  this?" 

"Yes;  thank  you  very  much;  it  will  be  much  better 
than  mine,"  she  replied,  tossing  the  lace -edged  bit  of 
batiste,  with  its  cherry-colored  stains,  over  her  shoulder 
into  the  churning  depths  of  Plogonak.  "But  really  I 
am  shamefully  abusing  your  kindness  of  heart.  Here, 
while  you  are  about  it,  would  you  mind  holding  these 
for  me?" 

With  a  tiny  grimace  of  pain  she  slowly  drew  the  big 
gems  from  her  rapidly  swelling  fingers,  laying  them  one 
by  one  in  his  hand.  "I  think,"  she  added,  "I'll  go  down 
to  the  beach  and  soak  these  'excruciating'  wounds  in 
sea- water — a  sovereign  remedy  for  us  sailors." 

"You  are  Lady  Clanvowe,  then?"  Pierre  asked,  in  turn. 

"Yes,  but  how  do  you  know  that  Lady  Clanvowe  and 
a  sailor  are  practically  one  and  the  same  thing?" 

He  smiled  beneath  his  small,  fair  mustache.  "  Every 
body  knows  that,"  he  answered.  "But  I  was  sure  of  it 
almost  before  your  last  remark.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
accompany  you — as  far  as  the  beach?" 

"Certainly,  and  it  will  procure  you  the  doubtful  ad 
vantage  of  becoming  acquainted  with  another  unsociable 
neighbor,"  she  added,  smiling.  "For  if  my  'nautical' 
eye  does  not  deceive  me,  that  is  Olier  de  Frehel  striding 
along  the  lower  path  yonder." 

"I  am  afraid  Monsieur  de  Frehe"l  will  scarcely  like  my 
being  forced  upon  him,"  Pierre  said,  drawing  back  slight 
ly.  "The  name  of  Dulac  is  not  .  .  .  what  shall  I  say?  .  .  . 
appreciated  around  here." 

Rouanez  turned  and  glanced  up  at  him  curiously.  In 
her  expressive  eyes  he  read  as  plainly  as  if  she  had  spoken : 
"  How  do  you  come  to  be  rowing  in  that  galley?"  Then 
her  long,  dark  lashes  closed  down  over  that  tell-tale  gaze, 
and  she  quietly  walked  on. 

286 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Monsieur  de  Frehe"l,  like  myself,  is  not  in  the  habit 
of  coloring  his  opinions  at  a  public  dye-vat." 

"That  being  the  case,"  Pierre  remarked,  "I  think  I 
will  go  on  with  you,  Madame,  because  otherwise.  .  .  ." 
He  left  the  sentence  unfinished,  and  followed  her  down 
one  of  those  disconcertingly  steep  rock-slides  which,  a 
mere  pleasantry  to  her,  were  newer  to  him,  and  conse 
quently  worthy  of  his  undivided  attention.  Not  for  an 
instant  led  into  the  mistake  of  offering  her  his  help,  cb- 
viously  futile  under  the  circumstances,  he  landed  on  the 
shingle  immediately  behind  her,  and  smilingly  received 
her  compliments  upon  his  "promising"  manner  of  ne 
gotiating  this  new  difficulty. 

"You  will  become  acclimatized  here  in  no  time,"  she 
assured  him,  already  kneeling  at  the  edge  of  a  tiny  pool 
with  her  hands  in  the  water.  "And  that  is  not  easy  for 
most  people  to  do." 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  rejoined,  "that  the  one  thing  need 
ful  for  the  accomplishment  of  your  flattering  prophecy, 
Madame,  is  just  what  I  lack — I  mean  opportunity — for 
I  have  decided  recently  to  begin  fending  for  myself  in  a 
less  poetical  country." 

Why  he  was  telling  her  this  he  could  not  have  ex 
plained,  even  to  himself;  but  the  fact  remains  that  he 
did  tell  her,  and  in  a  tone  which  spoke  clearer  and  louder 
than  his  words. 

"Ah!"  was  all  she  said  in  reply;  and  yet  he  felt  that 
she  understood  and  approved,  which  on  such  short  ac 
quaintance  meant  volumes  in  favor  of  that  fifth  sense 
which  some  privileged  beings  possess,  and  which  for  want 
of  a  better  term  may  be  called  insight. 

Olier,  greatly  puzzled,  and  perhaps — who  knows? — a 
little  disquieted,  to  see  her  chatting,  apparently  in  the 
friendliest  spirit,  with  a  total  stranger  who  even  at  a  dis- 

287 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

tance  looked  rather  prepossessing,  had  meanwhile  quick 
ened  his  pace  with  such  excellent  effect  that  he  was  close 
upon  them  now,  and  spared  Pierre  any  further  private 
explanations,  creating  a  diversion  extremely  welcome  to 
Rouanez,  since  the  difficulties  of  continuing  the  conversa 
tion  along  such  lines  were  easily  foreseen. 

Pierre,  who  was  no  stranger  to  Olier's  reputation  for 
a  stand-offishness  even  more  marked  than  that  of  his 
cKss  in  general,  was  agreeably  surprised  by  this  meeting. 
He  sat  with  those  two  on  the  rocks  discussing  the  late 
adventure — which  in  the  rendering  by  Rouanez  became 
somehow  or  other  inimitably  humorous  —  and  seemed 
outwardly  as  gay  and  light-hearted  as  his  new  acquaint 
ances.  Yet  all  the  while  he  felt  a  dull  resentment  grad 
ually  rising  within  him  at  Fate's  unjust  ordering  of  his 
affairs.  For  here  were  people  of  a  stamp  never  before 
encountered,  but  already  understood  and  appreciated, 
and  who  seemed  to  return  both  these  feelings.  And  yet 
he  keenly  and  bitterly  realized  that  once  he  had  turned 
the  angle  of  the  cliff  yonder,  where  the  great  rocks  de 
ployed  like  skirmishers  into  leaping  sea-froth,  they  would 
be  utterly  lost  to  him.  They  on  one  side,  he  on  the  other 
— in  more  senses  than  one,  alas ! — and  this  barrier,  in  the 
most  ordinary  loyalty  to  his  parents,  he  could  not  cross 
again. 

His  face  was  clouded  when  he  rose  to  go,  and  Rouanez, 
who  had  risen  also,  glanced  at  him  for  a  moment  sym 
pathetically  before  speaking.  Then,  in  her  peculiarly 
gracious  and  impulsive  way,  she  said,  quickly: 

"I  don't  want  you  to  feel  hurt,  Monsieur,  by  my  not 
asking  you  to  call  upon  me,  and  especially  do  I  wish  you 
to  understand  that  under  other  circumstances  I  would 
deem  it  a  genuine  pleasure  to  have  you  do  so.  You  may 
have  heard  that  I  make  or  return  no  visits  whatsoever, 

288 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

having  come  here  for  a  thorough  rest.  Olier  de  Frehel  has 
been  the  only  exception  to  my  rule,  and  this  only  because 
I  knew  his  parents  intimately  .  .  .  during  the  late  Count 
de  FreheTs  diplomatic  wanderings  through  Europe.  My 
husband  was  on  two  or  three  occasions  accredited  to  the 
same  courts."  She  paused,  and,  underlining  her  words 
with  a  kindly  look,  added,  "Remember  that  personally 
I  should  like  to  number  you  among  my  friends." 

Pierre  was  touched,  and  had  the  good  sense  not  to  con 
ceal  it. 

" I  understand,  Madame,"  he  said,  simply,  "and  I  thank 
you.  If  ever — which  is  not  very  probable — I  could  again 
be  of  some  service  to  you,  it  would  make  me  happy." 
And,  bending  over  her  hand,  he  touched  it  with  his  lips, 
turned,  and  walked  quickly  away. 

"  A  remarkably  nice  boy !"  Rouanez  commented.  "  How 
in  the  mischief  can  he  be  Dulac's  son?" 

"There  are  some,"  Olier  began,  "who  assert  that — 
But  just  then  Pierre  ran  back  toward  them,  red  with 
confusion. 

"Really,  Miladi,"  he  said,  stammering  a  little  in  his 
embarrassment,  "I  do  not  know  how  to  apologize  for 
my  stupidity.  I  was  carrying  off  all  your  rings!" 

Rouanez  and  Olier  burst  out  laughing  at  his  concern, 
as  he  nervously  extracted  the  sparkling  handful  from  his 
pocket  and  anxiously  asked  if  "they  were  all  there?" 

"He's  an  uncommonly  decent  chap,"  Olier  observed, 
thoughtfully,  in  belated  answer  to  her  previous  remark, 
as  they  watched  Pierre's  active  form  disappear  behind  a 
projection  of  the  falaise.  "And  thank  God  he  was  there 
to  help  you,  since  you  will  insist  upon  risking  your  life 
on  every  possible  occasion." 

"Was  I  to  let  old  Mamm-Goz  Cradek's  hopeful  grand 
son  tumble  into  Plogonak?"  she  asked. 
19  289 


THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

"Better  a  hundred  hopeful  Cradeks  than  you!"  he 
answered,  impatiently.  "I  should  never  leave  your  side 
for  a  minute.  And  yet  even  when  I  am  there  you  man 
age  to  run  into  constant  danger.  It  is  enough  to  drive 
one  wild  to  watch  you  at  that  game." 

Her  clear  laugh  made  him  look  up  in  astonishment,  for 
lately  somehow  it  had  lost  some  of  its  contagious  joyful- 
ness. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  she  said,  lightly.  "  Are  we  not  going 
to  face  far  greater  risks  in  a  few  days,  you  and  I  ?" 

"Ye-es,"  he  grumbled.  "Yes,  I  suppose  one  must  call 
them  greater,  although  that  little  whirlpool  yonder  is  not 
half  bad  in  its  way.  But  for  those  we  are  prepared.  We 
expect  them,  and  we  will  meet  them  together." 

Here  was  a  line  of  thought  which  it  was  better  to  break 
through  at  once,  considered  Rouanez,  and  with  a  cool 
ness  of  tone  perhaps  a  little  overdone,  she  launched  her 
self  headlong  into  a  deep  explanation  about  the  last  orders 
to  be  given,  the  last  details  to  be  attended  to,  Olier  listen 
ing  attentively — or  so  it  might  be  supposed  from  the  per 
fect  gravity  of  his  expression,  although  his  eyes  seemed 
just  then  strangely  vacant  and  lost  to  present  surround 
ings. 

"Hanvec  has  done  wonders,"  Rouanez  was  saying, 
her  own  blue  orbs  fixed  on  the  soft  heave  of  the  sea,  her 
hands  clasped  idly  in  her  lap,  where  the  rings  returned 
by  Pierre  lay  carelessly  between  the  folds  of  her  dress. 
"We  owe  more  recruits  to  him  than  to  almost  any  one 
else,  among  the  peasants  and  fishermen  at  least.  Keben, 
too,  has  been  remarkably  active,  he  is  so  impossible  to 
tire  out,  either  physically  or  mentally;  and  even  Dame 
Isilt  came  off  her  stilts  lately  to  aid  us  in  the  arrangement 
of  minor  details.  Oh,  ours  is  a  reliable  crew,  Olier,  and 
we  might  well  be  proud  of  it." 

290 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"I  believe  we  are,"  he  retorted,  "and  with  good  rea 
son.  Would  you  ever  have  thought  that  Arzur  could 
have  sobered  down  as  he  has  .  .  .  and  Masserac,  whom  we 
used  to  laugh  at  so  unmercifully;  why,  he  is  transformed 
— positively  transformed." 

She  was  still  absently  gazing  at  the  smooth  undulations 
slowly  turning  from  shadpwless  blue  to  a  deeper  tone  of 
sapphire,  netted  with  warm  gold  by  the  rays  of  a  misty 
sunset. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  dreamily,  "they  are  all  and  every  one 
doing  the  cause  stout  service.  Korneli  told  me  yesterday 
that  the  Roparz  women,  in  imitation  of  pur  old  Kerdikan, 
have  made  their  inn  a  sort  of  headquarters  for  the  Royal 
ists.  Little  Enora,  it  appears,  has  thrown  herself  heart 
and  soul  into  the  work,  and  as  that  child's  heart  and  soul 
are  faithfully  mirrored  in  the  purity  of  her  lilac  eyes,  you 
can  judge  what  she  accomplishes.  It  is  extraordinary 
.  .  .  extraordinary!" 

"No,  perfectly  natural,"  Olier  corrected,  with  curious 
emphasis.  "  Perfectly  natural — since  all  these  sentiments 
that  you  are  admiring  so  guilelessly  have  been  awakened 
and  fostered  by  you.  Would  even  the  Tremoers,  would 
Keben  and  his  grandmother,  Masse'rac,  Laoual,  or  Hanvec 
himself,  have  stirred  a  finger  but  for  your  appearance 
among  them?  And  what  about  me  before  you  came — 
with  my  slack  nerve  and  fallow  brain — spending  my  time 
in  profitless  regrets  and  impossible  schemes  ?  But  where 
is  the  use  of  trying  to  show  you  all  you  have  done  ...  to 
return  to  you  one-millionth  part  of  the  feelings  you  have 
inspired?"  He  paused,  and,  without  turning  her  head 
toward  him,  she  said,  as  if  roused  from  some  far-away 
dream : 

"The  least  said  about  all  that  the  better."  There  was 
faint  annoyance  in  her  tone,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to 

291 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

refute  her  statement.  "We  are  all  but  ready  now,"  she 
continued,  "which,  after  all,  is  the  chief  thing.  In  a  week 
— ten  days  at  most — the  signal  can  be  given,  and  then 
'A  Dieu  vat' — as  they  have  not  yet  given  up  saying  here 
...  for  the  rest  is  in  His  hands." 

Still  he  remained  silent,  and  she  began,  a  little  hurriedly: 
"I  hope  that  this  young  Dulac  won't  make  mischief — 
unintentionally,  of  course.  His  parents  are  here;  also  his 
brother — a  shady  boursier  that  one,  it  appears,  mean  and 
ugly  and  vulgar  beyond  all  conception.  I  am  told  that 
they  have  determined  to  subjugate  the  whole  country 
side.  You  say  I  am  always  starting  for  the  conquest  of 
a  star.  Their  ambitions  are  more  earthly,  and  no  canail- 
lerle  would  be  too  great  for  them  to  perpetrate  in  the 
achievement  of  their  purpose.  Ah!  Perhaps  it  would 
have  been  wiser  under  the  circumstances  to  have  re 
ceived  them — to  have  been  less  stiff-necked.  God  only 
knows  what  they  are  capable  of!  I  can  only  hope  that 
Monsieur  Pierre  did  not  notice  the  few  words  of  Breton  I 
was  forced  to  use  in  order  to  urge  Azen  on  to  a  last  effort, 
just  as  the  accursed  bush  he  hung  from  was  parting  com 
pany  with  the  cliff.  That  might  prove  inconvenient. 
You  know  how  the  least  spark  can  sometimes  start  a 
blaze  from  frontier  to  frontier.  Fortunately,  Plogonak 
was  making  such  an  infernal  racket  that  probably  he 
could  not  tell  the  difference.  Besides  —  though  I  may 
be  mistaken  —  somehow  or  other  I  have  a  premonition 
that  no  harm  will  come  to  us  through  this  lad  of  the 
honest  eyes.  I  am  tempted,  in  fact,  to  accept  the 
Chronique  Scandaleuse's  verdict.  Those  eyes  are  not  of 
the  Dulac  type." 

"As  usual,  you  must  be  right,"  he  replied  at  last.  "I 
was  agreeably  impressed  by  him,  too,  and  I  don't  think 
he  is  the  sort  to  boast  of  his  adventure.  If  he  is  the  man 

292 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

we  think  he  is,  he  probably  holds  his  family  at  arm's- 
length.  Perhaps  he  won't  even  mention  it  at  all." 

"That,  of  course,  would  be  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  for  us  in  every  respect,"  she  admitted.  "  Because 
there  are  moments  when  an  uncomfortable  foreboding 
comes  over  me,  Olier;  superstitious  you  would  call  it, 
probably.  We  have  succeeded  too  completely,  so  far. 
It  is  not  quite  natural,  for  there  has  really  been  no  hitch 
of  any  sort — no  serious  hitch,  I  mean — has  there?" 

"I  cannot  say  there  has,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"That's  just  it.  I  would  feel  much  more  reassured  if 
some  minor  contretemps  had  come  to  rob  us  of  any  pos 
sible  over-confidence.  At  least  we  can  be  thankful  that, 
even  if  we  failed  at  the  eleventh  hour,  nobody  would  be 
endangered,  no  lives  risked,  since  the  last  signal  alone 
will  throw  down  each  individual  mask."  She  shivered 
a  little,  and  paused  abruptly. 

"You,"  he  indignantly  protested — "you  try  to  make 
me  believe  that  there  is  anything  on  earth  that  can  dis 
quiet  or  alarm  you?  Do  you  for  a  second  imagine  that 
I'll  swallow  that?"  He  gave  a  sudden  short  laugh,  more 
expressive  than  any  words,  and  resumed:  "Read  the 
daily  papers  if  you  wish  to  see  how  circumstances  are 
fighting  for  us.  The  Labor  Unionists  and  the  Govern 
ment  have  at  last  come  to  actual  blows.  The  hour  is 
near  when  labor  and  capital  will  be  completely  at  logger 
heads,  and  everybody  sees  what  the  consequences  of  such 
a  state  of  affairs  must  necessarily  be.  How  did  Louis 
Napoleon  reach  the  Imperial  Throne,  if  you  please?" 

"Through  a  sewer  full  of  blood  and  mud,"  she  said, 
curtly. 

"Yes,  that  is  true.  But  would  he  have  had  even  that 
uninviting  opportunity  if  the  Second  Republic  had  not 
been  compelled  to  jettison  all  its  laboriously  acquired 

293 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

popularity,  in  order  to  subdue  the  hordes  of  revolted 
workmen  that  constituted  a  national  danger?  General 
Cavaignac  made  full  use  of  his  powers  then  .  .  .  and  the 
glorious  brand-new  principles  of  anti-militarism,  equality, 
fraternity,  and  the  rest  were  rather  ruthlessly  trampled 
under  foot,  were  they  not?" 

"Assuredly." 

"And,"  he  went  on,  speaking  for  the  first  time  in  her 
knowledge  of  him  with  a  youthful  enthusiasm  she  had 
scarcely  believed  him  capable  of  displaying  openly — "and 
if,  instead  of  a  Louis  Napoleon,  France  had  found  at 
its  head  a  real  man  —  a  real  King  born  to  the  task  — 
strong  and  unyielding,  but  whose  heart  beat  in  unison 
with  that  of  his  people,  who  understood  their  needs  and 
knew  how  to  rekindle  their  loyalty  and  their  pride,  would 
not  France  have  come  to  her  own  then?" 

Rouanez  gave  a  long,  shuddering  sigh. 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  "of  course.  But  for  such  deeds 
a  Henry  IV.  is  needed.  Not,"  she  added,  "that  I  do  not 
think  highly  of  our  Prince,  both  aS  a  man  and  as  a  future 
sovereign.  He  has  not  always  been  well  surrounded  or 
well  counselled,  but  he  is  plucky — he  showed  that  often 
enough  during  his  dangerous  explorations  —  and  never 
loses  his  head — a  good  trait  that  for  a  King  of  France! 
He  has  a  high  ideal  of  right  and  justice,  a  limitless  ca 
pacity  for  hard  work — oh,  he  will  surprise  many  people 
when  he  comes  into  power.  Besides,  he  is  manly,  well- 
set-up,  and  good-looking,  which  still  counts  for  much  with 
the  French,  and  he  can  look  very  royal  indeed  when  he 
chooses.  Also,  he  has  had  the  good  sense  not  to  make 
a  mesalliance.  But  one's  times,  after  all,  are  one's  only 
opportunity,  and  ours  are  scarcely  as  favorable  as  former 
days." 

"The  times  are  what  they  are  made  to  be!"  he  ex- 

294 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

claimed.  "Talk  about  the  will  of  the  majority!  It  has 
always  been  the  organized  and  militant  minorities  that 
have  moved  the  world.  The  masses  have  never  done  more 
than  shout  the  catch-words  of  the  hour.  And  remember 
how  abject  the  situation  is  here  in  France.  If  things  get 
a  trifle  worse  something  is  bound  to  happen,  anyway. 
So,  even  if  we  fail,  somebody  will  succeed  soon.  But  we 
won't  fail!  We  will  all  put  our  shoulders  to  the  wheel, 
and,  never  fear,  the  Saints  helping,  we  will  unmire  the 
monarchical  car." 

She  turned  about,  swift  and  graceful,  and  for  the  first 
time  looked  full  at  him. 

"If  they  all  feel  as  you  do,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden 
happy  little  smile,  "we  cannot  fail;  not  even  in  the  face 
of  a  thousand  treacheries." 

"That's  an  ugly  word,"  he  said,  impatiently.  "What 
made  you  think  of  treachery?  Surely  there  is  no  one  in 
our  ranks  who  could  have  suggested  such  a  thought  to 
you?" 

"You  know  very  well  that  there  is  not.  We  are  all  as 
'  White'  as  snow." 

"Grafton,  then?"  he  asked,  quickly. 

"Grafton  is  a  fool,  a  prig,  a  kill-joy  if  you  like;  but 
for  two  reasons  he  could  never  turn  traitor.  First  of  all, 
because,  knowing  nothing,  he  can  betray  nothing;  and 
secondly,  because,  even  with  all  his  defects,  he  is  a 
strictly  honest  and  incorruptible  man.  No,  it  is  mere 
ly  a  phase  of  the  feeling  that  I  mentioned  awhile  ago. 
Grafton  was  not  in  my  mind;  nor,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
any  one  else  in  particular.  Of  course,  I  wish  I  had  never 
brought  him  here,  for  he  has  bothered  me  more  than  I 
can  express,  especially  before  Jwala-Singh  took  him  in 
charge.  I  devoutly  hope,  for  Graf  ton's  sake,  that  Jwala- 
Singh  will  never  have  a  serious  cause  of  complaint  against 

295 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

him,  for  my  body-guard  has  a  somewhat  relentless  nat 
ure." 

"I  can  easily  believe  that,"  he  answered,  with  convic 
tion.  "And  now  just  look  at  that  sky!" 

The  sun,  sinking  through  thinly  diffused  vapors,  was 
floating  just  awash  upon  the  glowing  water,  a  sphere  of 
blood-red  magnificence,  from  which  great  rays  of  crim 
son-gold  smote  fiercely  upward.  So  intense  was  the  col 
oring  that  the  cloudless  heavens  and  sea  were  alike 
slowly  becoming  masked  in  sombre  flame,  and  their  eyes 
blinked  as  they  watched  the  transformation  of  all  the 
pensive  beauty  of  that  late  summer  afternoon  into  such 
a  vision  of  infernal  splendor  as  scarcely  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  world  at  all. 

"In  ei'^hteen-seventy,"  she  said,  softly,  shielding  her 
blue  gaze  beneath  both  hands,  "I  remember  being  carried 
out  of  my  bed,  little  more  than  a  toddling  baby  then,  to 
see  a  sky  just  like  this  one.  There  was  no  sun,  of  course, 
for  it  was  ten  o'clock  at  night,  but  half  the  heavens  and 
half  the  sea  were  of  that  same  color.  The  peasants  said 
it  was  an  omen — a  bad  omen  it  proved  to  be.  Eighteen- 
seventy,"  she  repeated — "a  long,  long  time  ago." 

She  was  watching  between  her  interlaced  fingers  the 
face  of  the  man  at  her  side.  Would  he  understand  now 
what  long  years  separated  his  youth  from  hers  ?  But  not 
a  muscle  of  the  steady  countenance  moved,  the  loyal, 
deep-gray  eyes  kept  looking  straight  ahead,  without  the 
faintest  change  of  expression,  and  the  sun  slipped  out  of 
sight  before  he  spoke  again. 

"A  bad  omen  then,  a  good  one  now,"  he  said,  simply. 
"A  good  omen  for  our  Cause  and  our  King,  and  for  you 
and  me,  too.  The  best  of  all;  I  feel  it." 

She  rose  very  slowly,  holding  the  rings — that  seemed 
all  turned  into  rubies  by  the  lingering  splendor  above — 

296 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

within  a  fold  of  her  white  skirt,  and  there  was  something 
in  the  eyes  bent  upon  them  which  it  was  perhaps  a  pity 
— probably  a  blessing — that  he  did  not  see. 

"Let  us  hope  so,"  she  said,  lightly,  evidently  busy  be 
yond  all  more  serious  concerns  with  the  sand  that  ad 
hered  to  the  hem  of  her  skirts. 

That  evening  when  he  had  left  her,  after  a  late  dinner, 
during  which  they  had  both  been  more  silent  than  usual, 
she  stood  for  a  long  while  on  her  balcony,  lost  in  the  won 
der  of  the  phosphorescent  sea,  which,  as  on  the  night 
when  it  had  so  greatly  disturbed  Graf  ton,  was  doing  its 
best  to  prove  to  poor  purblind  humanity  that  there  is 
even  here  below  a  silver  selvage  to  the  dark — a  foretaste 
of  some  unfathomable  reward  for  all  we  must  first  en 
dure.  All  the  doubts  and  restless  dreads  of  the  earlier 
day  had  left  her;  she  was  no  longer  heavy-hearted  or 
distressed,  and,  suddenly  stretching  out  both  arms  straight 
in  front  of  her,  she  gave  one  of  her  little  laughs. 

"A  good  omen!"  she  said,  aloud.     "The  best  of  all!" 


CHAPTER   XXI 

Silence  doth  keep  her  temple,  hushed  with  stars, 
The  winds  are  all  her  worshippers,  and  lo! 

The  red  moon,  sinking  to  the  western  bars, 
Swings  like  a  heavy  censer,  soft  and  slow. 

La  Chanson  de  la  Bretagne. 

" TO-MORROW?  .  .  .  To-morrow?"  Rouanez  twice  re 
peated,  questioningly,  to  herself,  laying  down  upon  the 
balcony  ledge  the  violin  from  which  for  over  two  hours 
she  had  been  drawing  the  music  that  never  failed  to 
soothe  her  unrest. 

To-morrow,  indeed,  the  signal  would  at  last  be  given, 
and  although,  there  was  a  certain  sense  of  exultation  in 
her  heart  at  the  thought  of  the  splendidly  accomplished 
task,  yet  tears  were  not  as  far  from  her  brave  eyes  as 
they  usually  remained  even  in  her  darkest  moods,  when 
she  recalled  that  after  to-night  the  long,  unforgettable 
months  she  had  spent  at  Rozkavel  were  at  an  end.  Her 
place  henceforth  would  be  either  at  Clanvowe  Hall  or 
else  in  the  foreign  capitals  to  which  her  husband  would 
be  accredited,  and  of  the  recent  experiences  which  had 
made  weeks  fly  like  days,  and  hours  like  minutes,  there 
would  remain  little  indeed  to  increase  the  pleasure  of  liv 
ing,  unless  success  should  crown  all  those  united  efforts 
that  she  had  set  in  motion,  and  the  satisfaction  of  having 
rescued  her  people  from  many  undeserved  miseries  could 
be  hers.  That  was  something,  of  course — a  great  deal, 
even — and  yet,  as  she  touched  the  chords  of  her  violin 

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THE    CRADLE    OP    THE    ROSE 

absent-mindedly  with  one  idle  finger,  she  sighed  wearily 
once  or  twice. 

The  weather  was  rather  mournful,  too,  this  evening, 
gray  and  sleepy,  with  masses  of  thin,  silvery  fog  drifting 
about  in  the  offing,  through  which  the  graceful  silhouette 
of  the  "  Kestrel "  riding  at  anchor  a  good  bit  further  up 
the  coast  could  intermittently  be  divined  for  a  moment. 
Olier  and,  for  the  first  time,  Arzur  were  coming  to  dinner, 
in  order  to  decide  about  one  or  two  final  details,  and,  in 
the  hope  that  the  mist  would  rise  after  sundown,  Rouanez 
had  ordered  Captain  Penruddock  to  have  the  canot  in 
readiness  if  a  flare  should  be  set  off  from  the  Fort.  A 
short  cruise  would  be  soothing,  perhaps,  to  more  or  less 
strained  nerves,  and  also  she  had  always  promised  Arzur 
to  show  him  the  yacht,  without  hitherto  finding  a  con 
venient  moment  for  it. 

"I  must  go  and  dress,"  she  now  thought.  "This  may 
very  well  be  my  last  dinner  at  Fort  Rozkavel,  and  a  lit 
tle  more  ceremony  than  usual  seems  appropriate."  But 
still  she  lingered,  straightening  the  flowers  in  one  or  two 
of  the  big  bronze  bowls  screwed  to  the  stone  ledge,  pat 
ting  the  dogs  lying  at  full  length  on  their  luxurious  cush 
ions,  and  finally  becoming  so  absorbed  in  the  pages  of  a 
book  she  had  picked  up  at  random,  that  she  went  on 
reading  it,  half  kneeling  on  her  basket -chair  with  the 
volume  resting  on  the  curved  back,  until  the  deep-voiced 
clock  in  the  neighboring  "den"  roused  her  with  a  start 
of  surprise  to  the  knowledge  that  she  had  left  herself 
hardly  sufficient  time,  after  all,  to  get  into  something 
more  elaborate  than  one  of  her  usual  plain  white  even 
ing  gowns. 

Haste  was  not  detrimental  to  her,  however,  as  far  as 
general  results  went,  for  when  she  stepped  again  on  the 
balcony  to  meet  her  two  guests  she  had  succeeded  even 

299 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

beyond  her  purpose,  and  looked  so  lovely  that  Arzur 
actually  gasped. 

"I  am  so  sorry  to  be  late,"  she  apologized.  "Olier  will 
tell  you,  Arzur,  that  I  am  generally  not  so  rude." 

Olier  was  apparently  not  inclined  to  say  anything  just 
then,  for  he  was  gazing  at  her  from  a  shadowy  corner, 
beyond  the  lamp  already  lit  on  the  little  table,  as  if  he 
had  never  seen  her  before.  Could  this  be  the  "comrade" 
who  had  wandered  all  over  the  lande  and  beach  with  him, 
who  had  run  up  the  semaphore-mast  like  a  boy,  and, 
wrapped  in  oil-skins  and  sou'wester,  taken  charge  of  the 
"Kestrel"  in  the  worst  squalls?  Often  and  often  he  had 
dined  with  her  here,  and  had  sat  at  table  opposite  that 
slim,  white-clad  figure,  but  on  none  of  those  occasions 
had  he  seen  what  he  saw  now  before  him — the  great  lady, 
and  nothing  but  that  ...  a  comb  of  aquamarines  set  high 
in  her  diadem  of  silver  braids,  her  long  train  of  snowy 
gauze  giving  her  additional  height,  and  rope  upon  rope 
of  pearls,  large  and  soft  and  iridescent,  like  little  misty 
moons,  falling  about  her  dazzling  throat.  It  could  not 
be  Rouanez,  he  felt,  with  a  sudden  ache  at  the  heart. 
No!  It  was  Lady  Clanvowe,  the  future  Ambassadress 
.  .  .  and  his  "comrade"  was  no  more! 

Fortunately  for  him,  Arzur's  exuberant  exclamations 
about  his  chbre  petite  Madame 's  magnificence  gave  him 
opportunity  to  pull  himself  together,  and  when  the  run 
ning  fire  of  teasing  and  repartee,  which  often  turned  into 
a  regular  skirmish  the  greetings  exchanged  by  those  two, 
came  to  an  end,  Olier  was  to  all  outward  appearances 
himself  again;  a  little  colder,  a  little  quieter,  perhaps — 
but  then  he  was  never  very  boisterous — and  so  he  could 
flatter  himself  that  this  new  pain,  added  to  another  bit 
ter  one  which  never  altogether  left  him  now,  would  pass 
unnoticed. 

300 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Do  you  think,  Olier,"  Rouanez  asked  him,  just  as 
Grafton,  more  solemn  and  imposing  than  ever,  advanced 
to  announce  dinner — "do  you  think  we  can  go  out  on 
the  yacht  later?" 

He  turned  before  offering  her  his  arm,  and,  bending  his 
tall  form  to  glance  beneath  the  pink-and-white  scallops 
of  the  balcony  awning,  scanned  the  weather. 

"Well,"  he  said,  doubtfully,  "the  fog  is  still  there,  but 
it  is  early  yet,  and  it  may  blow  away  by  ten  o'clock;  so 
if  you  really  want  to  go — " 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "I  really  would  like  to.  It's  sad 
here  to-night,  for  some  reason  or  other." 

The  dining-room,  with  its  flowers  and  crystal  and 
silver,  lighted  by  many  pink-veiled  lamps,  was,  however, 
anything  but  sad,  and  Arzur's  laughing  voice  and  boyish 
gayety  contributed  not  a  little  to  drive  off  any  possible 
hint  of  melancholy,  all  the  more  so,  indeed,  since  before 
the  servants  the  talk  could  only  be  of  every-day  topics, 
which  were  wittily  discussed  or  turned  into  ridicule  now 
and  again  with  incomparable  drollery  by  Rouanez  and 
this  youngest  of  all  her  admirers. 

Nobody  watching  the  scene  would  ever  have  dreamed 
that  here  were  three  prime  movers  in  an  undertaking 
involving  countless  lives  and  the  future  of  a  great  coun 
try;  and — be  it  said  to  their  credit — there  was  nothing 
forced  in  their  attitudes  or  their  words,  excepting  per 
haps  in  the  case  of  Olier,  and  that  for  very  private 
reasons,  indeed,  which  in  no  manner  concerned  the 
heavy  political  responsibilities  weighing  upon  his  shoul 
ders. 

The  mist  had  thinned  considerably  when  at  Arzur's 
particular  request  they  came  back  to  the  balcony  for 
coffee,  as  being  more  comfortable  than  any  other  place, 
and  so  much  so  did  it  prove  that  for  a  moment  Rouanez 

301 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

questioned  the  wisdom  of  putting  her  plan  into  execution 
at  all. 

"Let's  wait  awhile,  anyhow,"  she  said,  nestling  into 
her  arm-chair.  "We  needn't  go  before  eleven,  in  any 
case,  and  you  are  right,  Arzur — it  is  pleasant  here." 

"I  am  always  right,"  he  gravely  declared.  "Don't 
you  know  that?  But  if  I  am  to  grant  you  a  reprieve 
from  those  more  arduous  nautical  duties  which  you  ap 
pear  to  disdain  so  greatly  to-night,  you  will  have  to 
bribe  me." 

"What  now?"  she  asked,  laughing.  "Do  you  want  me 
to  delegate  the  command  of  the  "  Kestrel  "  to  your  abler 
hands  when  we  go  aboard?" 

"Not  much!  I  am  a  land-crab,  if  ever  there  was  one. 
What  I  demand  as  my  due  is  that  you  shall  play  for  me. 
I  have  never  heard  you."  And,  pleading  in  good  earnest 
now,  he  concluded:  "Please,  dear  little  'Miladi,'  please. 
Don't  refuse  me  the  first  boon  I  ask." 

"Play  like  that,  immediately  after  a  heavy  dinner?" 
she  mischievously  objected. 

"A  heavy  dinner!  You  did  not  eat  enough  to  break 
the  fast  of  a  butterfly.  Ah,  if  I  were  your  chef  I  would 
hand  in  my  immediate  resignation  to  so  unepicurean  a 
mistress."  And,  pouncing  on  the  violin-case,  he  dropped 
on  one  knee,  holding  it  aloft  like  a  viaticum  to  present 
it  to  her. 

"If  I  must,  I  must,"  she  said,  lifting  the  priceless 'in 
strument  from  its  bed  of  ancient  brocade  and  rising  to 
take  up  her  favorite  position  when  playing  without  ac 
companiment — half  turned  from  her  small  audience  and 
leaning  lightly  against  the  broad-ledged  balustrade. 

Olier  had  retreated  once  more  into  the  shadow ;  Arzur, 
absolutely  serious  for  once,  sat  bolt  upright  on  the  pile 
of  cushions  where  he  had  unceremoniously  lounged  until 

302 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

then,  and  as  usual,  without  even  the  slightest  flutter  of  pre 
luding  notes,  the  star-song  began.  But,  as  was  not  usual 
when  others  were  present,  she  let  her  thoughts  clothe  them 
selves  transparently  in  harmonies  that  melted  from  one 
exquisite  shade  to  another  in  a  continuous  delight  of 
tremulous  sound,  sad  and  gay,  slow  and  rapid,  without 
a  break,  as  she  rendered  with  that  inimitable  touch  of 
hers  wellnigh  all  the  phases  of  her  innermost  feeling  during 
the  past  few  months — forgetting  more  and  more  that  she 
was  not  alone,  and  so  sunk  in  her  marvellous  improvisation 
that  the  violin  itself  no  longer  existed  for  her,  and  she 
scarcely  felt  it  moan  or  laugh  beneath  her  caressing  ringers. 

Nearest  the  human  heart!  Ah,  surely  so,  for  this  was 
the  voice  of  her  very  soul  they  were  hearing  that  night, 
although  she  herself  did  not  know,  for  she  was  not  one  con 
sciously  to  give  it  utterance,  even  before  those  two  dearest 
friends.  Olier's  eyes  were  hidden  under  his  hand;  Arzur 
was  white  to  the  lips — not  very  steady  lips,  indeed — as 
he  listened  to  this  full  tide  of  harmony  gathering  itself 
as  the  sea  gathers  to  a  wave;  lifting  high  in  passionate 
crescendo,  to  plunge  downward  in  sonorous  cadences 
that  were  like  moving  light  upon  dark  waters.  Neither 
Rouanez,  drifting  far  away  on  the  wings  of  her  dream, 
nor  those  two  rapt  listeners  who  scarcely  dared  to  breathe 
for  fear  of  breaking  the  thrilling  charm  of  it  all,  noticed 
the  tall  form  of  Jwala-Singh  suddenly  obscure  the  lamp- 
shine  from  the  French  window  behind  them. 

Never  during  all  his  long  and  loyal  years  of  service  had 
he  ventured  to  come  unsummoned — yet  now  he  hastily 
crossed  over  to  where  his  mistress  stood  and  actually 
touched  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

With  eyes  widened  by  anxiety  she  turned,  and  at  the 
sight  of  his  face  let  her  beloved  violin  clatter  unheeded 
to  the  stone  floor. 

3°3 


THE    CRADLE    OF   THE    ROSE 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered,  bending  forward,  every 
nerve  on  the  alert,  and  the  Sikh  answered  in  the  curt 
tone  of  one  who  knows  there  is  no  time  for  stately  for 
malities  : 

"There  is  a  man  —  a  gentleman  —  who  brings  news. 
Pierre  Dulac — that  is  the  name  he  gave,  and  he  said  he 
must  be  received  at  once." 

"  Pierre  Dulac  ?  Pierre  Dulac !  Show  him  up  instantly 
.  .  .  yourself,  Jwala-Singh !" 

Her  voice  was  crisp  and  masterful  now,  and  Jwala- 
Singh,  who  had  been  a  trooper  of  the  Queen,  drew  him 
self  up,  gave  the  military  salute,  wheeled  and  retired. 
There  was  something  in  the  instinctive  action  like  the 
flash  of  a  drawn  sword  to  the  three  silent  people  waiting 
there,  they  knew  not  yet  for  what.  In  an  instant  the 
Sikh  was  back  again,  effacing  himself  on  the  balcony 
threshold  before  Pierre  Dulac,  breathless,  hatless,  and  in 
an  evening-dress  that  bore  unmistakable  witness  to  some 
mad  race  through  dew-laden  gorse  and  brambles. 

"Speak  in  peace,"  came  from  Jwala-Singh,  "I  guard 
the  door." 

"From  the  inside,  then,"  Olier,  once  more  keen  and 
ready,  commanded,  and  for  the  second  time  Jwala-Singh 
touched  his  turban  in  stiff  salute. 

Pierre,  holding  one  hand  to  his  left  side,  was  leaning 
heavily  on  the  table  with  the  other. 

"You  must  go  ...  at  once  .  .  ."  he  gasped.  "You, 
Madame,  and  these  gentlemen  .  .  .  the  gendarmes  may 
be  here  any  minute." 

Rouanez  was  looking  at  him  so  intently  that  her  eyes 
seemed  almost  black. 

"The  gendarmes?     What  for?"  she  asked,  sharply. 

Pierre  gave  a  quick  gesture,  which  swept  away  all 
further  possibility  of  equivocation. 

3°4 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"You  have  been  betrayed,"  he  hurriedly  exclaimed. 
"There  is  no  time  to  explain.  One  of  your  servants  has 
been  talking — innocently  perhaps — and  to-night  I  over 
heard  by  chance  Perron  and  Luvel — the  two  spies — dis 
cuss  the  whole  thing.  I  jumped  on  a  horse  to  come  and 
warn  you  ...  he  is  a  mile  back  in  a  ditch  with  a  broken 
neck  .  .  .  and  then  I  ran  the  rest  of  the  way." 

From  the  coffee-tray  Arzur  caught  up  a  glass  of  liqueur- 
brandy,  and  silently  held  it  out  to  him. 

"Drink  it,  Monsieur,"  Rouanez  urged,  and  watched 
him  gulp  it  down  gratefully.  "Your  opportunity  to  do 
us  service  seems  to  have  come  swiftly,"  she  added.  "But 
are  you  certain  of  what  you  say?  The  least  mistake 
would  mean  so  much."  She  was  speaking  quietly,  al 
most  conversationally,  although  her  extraordinary  eyes 
were  still  probing  his  with  a  persistence  that  to  nine  out 
of  ten  people  would  have  proved  insupportable.  He, 
strong  in  the  truth  of  his  terrible  message,  met  them 
squarely. 

"Yes,  Madame,  certain.  There  is  no  possibility  of 
error,"  he  said,  more  calmly  now.  "As  I  tell  you,  these 
spies  became  acquainted  with  one  of  your  household — 
Grafton  they  called  him  —  and  made  him  talk.  Since 
then  you  have  been  watched  night  and  day.  Flochard, 
my  father's  secretary  —  an  abject  canaille  —  somebody 
found  him  out,  perhaps,  for  he's  missing  since  this  morn 
ing — secretly  summoned  cleverer  men  than  Perron  and 
Luvel,  whom  I  suspected  of  some  sort  of  dirty  work — 
but  not  that — not  that — !"  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 
"Oh!"  he  cried,  suddenly  beating  his  fists  violently  to 
gether,  "the  shame  of  it  all!  But  what  are  we  doing? 
You  must  go  now,  Madame,  just  as  you  are,  without 
wasting  another  instant — and  if  there  are  any  papers — 
which  is  what  they're  after  first,  it  appears — !" 
20  305 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"There  are  none,  Monsieur  Pierre — none  at  all.  Every 
one  will  be  safe,  thanks  to  you  —  unless  we  three  are 
caught,  which  matters  less."  She  had  moved  to  the 
table,  where  lay  a  long,  black,  Spanish  mantilla,  and  threw 
it  over  her  head  and  shoulders.  "Come,  Olier;  come 
Arzur,"  she  said,  still  without  a  trace  of  emotion.  "And 
you,  Jwala-Singh,  go  burn  the  flare  to  summon  the  canot. 
If  others  see  it,  it  can't  be  helped.  You  must  stay  here 
and  take  charge — full  charge,  you  understand.  Join  me 
in  England  when  you  can.  Nobody  can  annoy  you. 
And  remember  that  you  know  nothing,  save  that  we 
have  gone  out  on  the  yacht.  For  the  rest,  do  in  all 
things  as  you  think  best." 

"I  will  stay  with  him,"  Pierre  said,  simply,  as  the 
Sikh,  his  eyes  burning  like  live  coals,  benj  'ow  over  the 
hand  she  extended  to  him  in  farewell  and  touched  it  with 
his  lips. 

"  No,  it's  better  not.  You  could  do  nothing,  save  com 
promise  yourself  and  him.  You  must  not  be  found  here. 
Officially  you  know  none  of  us.  Come,  we'll  go  down  to 
gether." 

She  nodded  to  Jwala-Singh,  and  passed  out,  without  a 
look  behind. 

Left  alone,  the  Sikh  ran  down  the  long  hall  and 
through  the  armory  to  the  window  from  which  the  flare 
was  always  burned,  sent  the  vivid  blue  signal  to  cut  its 
dazzling  way  through  the  transparent  mist,  and  sped  on, 
muttering  fiercely  in  his  native  tongue  as  he  traversed 
the  winding  intricacies  of  other  corridors. 

"When  they  are  well  away,"  he  said,  below  his  breath, 
pausing  at  last  before  a  closed  door,  "I,  who  am  in  charge, 
will  do  as  I  think  best!"  For  half  a  minute  he  wait 
ed,  breathing  hard;  then  with  calculated  violence  threw 
open  the  door  and  strode  into  Grafton's  comfortable 

306 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"parlor,"  where  that  personage,  coatless  and  ensconced 
in  one  deep  arm-chair  with  his  feet  in  another,  was  dal 
lying  luxuriously  with  a  cigar  and  a  cup  of  fragrant 
coffee. 

"Come!"  he  commanded.  Grafton  had  jumped  up  as 
if  he  had  been  stung.  "Come;  my  lady  needs  you." 

"Needs  me  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  what  for?"  the  startled  butler 
stammered. 

"Doubtless  she  will  tell  you.  There  is  great  trouble, 
and  we  are  wanted.  Make  haste — it  is  an  order!" 

The  conscience  that  Grafton  had  been  carrying  around 
for  some  time  rendered  him  peculiarly  vulnerable  to  a 
sudden  and  crafty  attack;  but  he  was  neither  so  startled 
nor  so  entirely  flustered  as  not  to  notice  the  strangeness 
of  Jwala-Singh's  expression  and  attitude — certainly  not 
those  of  one  servant  summoning  another.  And  Jwala- 
Singh  had  never  been  his  friend. 

"Where  is  my  lady?"  he  questioned,  trying  to  gain 
time  by  the  slowness  with  which  he  slipped  his  shaking 
arms  into  his  coat-sleeves ;  but  the  other,  who  had  no  in 
tention  of  allowing  him  to  collect  his  wits,  entered  into 
no  explanations. 

"By  now  she  has  gone  out  upon  the  cliff -path,"  he 
said,  fiercely.  "And  if  you  don't  come  this  instant,  I 
drag  you!" 

This  did  not  look  like  an  idle  threat,  and  in  another 
instant  Jwala-Singh  was  dexterously  steering  his  bewil 
dered  companion  through  the  maze  of  corridors,  down 
stairs  and  across  the  yard.  The  iron  door  clanged  heavily 
after  them,  and  they  were  out  upon  the  open  lande. 

For  a  little  while  longer  Grafton  allowed  himself  to  be 
urged  on,  but  the  loneliness  of  the  narrow  heather-track, 
empty  of  everything  save  trailing  wreaths  of  fog,  soon 
made  him  slacken  his  pace. 

3°7 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Can't  you  tell  me  at  least  what  has  happened?"  he 
asked,  peevishly,  his  voice  decidedly  unsteady  from  the 
unwonted  rapidity  of  the  pace  and  an  increasing  fear 
which  was  beginning  to  take  him  by  the  knees. 

"  There  is  no  need,"  Jwala-Singh  replied,  curtly.  "  You 
will  very  presently  discover." 

The  ring  of  triumph  in  the  voice  was  in  itself  a  warn 
ing,  and  Grafton  came  to  a  full  stop. 

"Now,  look  here,"  he  cried,  vainly  trying  to  reassume 
his  usual  impressiveness,  "I  am  not  under  your  orders. 
You  say  my  lady  wants  us.  Well  and  good.  But  I  will 
not  go  a  yard  further  until  you  tell  me  what's  hap 
pened." 

They  were  already  out  of  sight  of  the  Fort,  over  a 
shoulder  of  the  moor.  A  red  old  moon  was  rising  some 
where  unseen  behind  the  fog,  and  the  two  men  could 
almost  clearly  discern  each  other's  faces.  That  of  Graf- 
ton  was  ghostly  white  now,  the  Hindu's  darkly  impla 
cable,  and  for  a  second  they  confronted  each  other  with 
out  a  word.  Ahead  of  them  a  low,  pulsating  sound 
troubled  the  gray  gloom,  but  neither  heeded  it  just  then, 
not  even  Grafton,  who,  if  he  heard  it  at  all,  mistook  it 
for  the  beat  of  his  arteries  pounding  in  his  ears.  It  was 
too  soon  yet  to  use  force,  Jwala-Singh  realized;  a  call, 
a  cry  from  Grafton,  might  bring  the  gendarmes,  who,  if 
that  young  man  just  now  had  spoken  true,  might  well 
have  reached  the  Fort.  He  decided  to  curb  his  impa 
tience  a  little  longer,  though  this  was  hard  to  do. 

"I  will  explain  as  we  go,"  he  temporized.  "Only  you 
must  make  haste.  You  must!" 

A  little  reassured,  Grafton  started  off  again,  and  hu 
mored  the  other  to  the  point  of  hurrying  as  fast  as  his 
trembling  legs  would  allow. 

"My  lady  has  been  trying  to  free  her  country,"  Jwala- 

308 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Singh  presently  forced  himself  to  say.  "  But  some  treach 
erous  hound  betrayed  her,  and  the  soldiers  will  besiege 
the  Fort.  Do  you  understand?" 

Assuredly  Grafton  did  understand,  and  a  moan  of  hor 
ror  came  from  his  ashen  lips.  Indeed,  the  blow  was  so 
severe  that  he  tottered  and  would  have  fallen  had  not 
the  Sikh  seized  his  arm  and  held  him  up.  Once  or  twice 
a  vague  idea  that  his  mistress's  erratic  doings  might  be 
connected  with  politics  had  passed  through  his  mind, 
though  without  dwelling  there,  but  now  he  saw  what  he 
had  done,  and  he  felt  the  very  earth  rock  beneath  his 
feet. 

"Ha!"  said  his  captor.  "You  know  that  treacherous 
hound,  I  think."  And,  quite  indifferent  to  further  con 
sequences,  he  began  to  drag  the  unresisting  man  onward. 
But  suddenly  Grafton  put  out  his  remaining  strength  and 
held  back. 

"I  don't!"  he  snarled,  weakly.  "You  lie,  you  black 
beast!" 

Jwala-Singh  did  not  speak;  he  made  a  quick  gesture, 
and  Grafton  found  himself  looking  down  the  muzzle  of  a 
revolver. 

"Come  on!"  Jwala-Singh  commanded,  and  Grafton, 
wondering  whether  this  could  all  be  real,  or  merely  some 
hideous  nightmare,  did  not  dare  to  disobey,  though  his 
limbs  nearly  refused  to  support  him.  Every  word  he  had 
let  Perron  coax  out  of  him  during  several  "chance" 
meetings  on  the  beach  when  he,  Grafton,  went  to  smoke 
his  post  -  prandial  cigar,  seemed  now  burned  into  his 
stricken  brain.  But  how  much  of  this  did  Lady  Clan- 
vowe  know? — how  much  that  devil,  now  half  carrying 
him,  as  one  might  a  drunken  man,  along  the  misty  path  ? 
His  mouth  was  dry,  as  if  filled  with  sand;  before  his  eyes 
tiny  wheels  of  fire  danced;  and  the  strange  throbbing 

3°9 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

sound  was  now  in  his  head,  now  outside,  and  now  some 
where  in  front  of  him  along  the  cliff,  rising  and  fall 
ing,  like  a  sinister  accompaniment  to  the  whirlwind  of 
thoughts  that  were  driving  him  mad. 

He  felt  he  must  try  and  find  out  more  before  overtak 
ing  his  mistress,  but  he  had  not  breath  enough  left  to 
speak  just  then,  and  he  let  Jwala-Singh  drag  him  up  a 
heather-clad  rise  toward  what  looked  like  a  ruined  tower, 
though  his  eyes  were  too  dim  to  be  sure  of  what  he  saw. 
Then  suddenly  the  strange  noise  that  had  gone  far  away 
rose  in  a  choking  growl  at  his  very  feet,  where  the  solid 
earth  gave  downward  to  a  gulf  of  gray  darkness  and  ap 
palling  sound. 

"My  God!"  he  shrieked  aloud,  with  a  recoil  of  all  his 
miserable,  shivering  body,  sure  now  of  the  vengeance  that 
was  overtaking  him.  He  was  no  coward,  although  no 
longer  young  and  nearly  spent  with  the  horror  and 
exertion  of  the  last  half-hour.  Starting  backward,  with 
a  supreme  effort  he  gained  his  freedom  for  a  second  and 
tried  to  throw  himself  upon  his  formidable  adversary,  but 
Jwala-Singh  was  too  quick  and  cool  for  him,  and  meeting 
the  rush  with  a  forward  step  and  a  bent  body  he  locked 
his  arms  about  the  other's  loins,  straightened  himself  with 
a  tremendous  heave,  and  over  his  head  Grafton  flew  like 
a  stone  into  the  abyss. 

For  one  instant  there  was  a  dark  blotch  against  a  white 
upboiling  of  water  far  below,  then  with  a  hideous,  de 
vouring  gulp  the  whiteness  was  gone  also,  and  only  rum 
blings  of  the  inner  depths  rose  to  the  panting  watcher  from 
the  black  mouth  of  the  pit. 

"It  is  well  done,"  Jwala-Singh  muttered,  licking  his 
dry  lips.  He  spat  downward  into  the  ghastly  chasm, 
and,  turning  on  his  heel,  left  the  Hell  of  Plogonak,  run 
ning  swiftly. 

310 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

And,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  far  away  beyond  Castle 
Rozkavel  another  avenger  had  left  his  completed  work, 
where  Antoine  Flochard  lay  at  the  bottom  of  a  lonely 
ravine,  his  scheming  brains  laid  bare  by  a  blow  from  old 
Hanvec's  heavy  sabot. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  long,  gray  weed  of  the  nether  ooze,  where  the  blind,  slow 

currents  glide, 
Cares  not  at  all  'mid  the  sea-blooms  tall  that  such  are  to  him 

denied; 
"They  flow'r  more  fair  in  the  upper  air,  unbathed  of  the  ocean 

dews, 
And  they  come  to  shine  in  my  tangled  vine,"  quoth  the  weed 

of  the  nether  ooze. 

"  There's  a  prouder  red  than  the  corals  spread  where  my  tendrils 

flow  and  furl, 
And  a  jewelled  white  that  the  green  sea-light  ne'er  glimmered 

upon  a  pearl." 
Then  he  rose  at  the  rocking  ground-swell's  call  where  the  wave 

her  foam-flake  strews. 
"At  fitting  hours  do  I  cull  my  flow'rs,"  quoth  the  weed  of  the 

nether  ooze. 

And  he  spread  such  nets  as  the  fisher  sets,  a  snare  of  a  floating 

twine, 
All  lithely  leaved  to  the  lift  and  heave  of  the  blowing  starlit 

brine; 
"'Tis  a  couch  of  rest  for  a  troubled  breast,  and  Beauty  will  not 

refuse. 
Let  others  weep,  it  is  time  for  sleep,"  quoth  the  weed  of  the 

nether  ooze. 

For  his  prey  was  nigh,  and  with  ne'er  a  cry  the  cling  of  his  mesh 
it  bore, 

(Death  could  not  be  in  the  kindly  sea — it  crept  to  the  heart  be 
fore)  , 

Then  he  closed,  and  drew  on  his  cordage  true  as  the  careless 
fishers  use, 

Life,  love,  and  grace  to  the  still  embrace  of  the  weed  of  the  nether 
ooze. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Weed. — M.  M. 
312 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

As  they  passed  through  the  outer  hall  Olier  snatched 
up  a  long  storm-coat  and  threw  it  upon  Rouanez's  shoul 
ders  to  conceal  her  white  dress,  the  train  of  which  she  held 
bundled  under  her  left  arm.  Pierre's  manner  even  more 
than  his  words  compelled  haste,  and  the  short  pause  ne 
cessitated  by  the  withdrawal  of  the  heavy  bars  which,  af 
ter  admitting  Pierre,  Jwala-Singh  had  securely  replaced, 
seemed  strangely  exasperating. 

"You  had  really  better  come  no  further  with  us," 
Rouanez  whispered  to  Pierre.  "  You  have  risked  enough 
already.  Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you!" 

"  Let  me  come  as  far  as  the  beach,"  he  pleaded.  "  Per 
haps  three  will  not  be  too  many  to  help  you." 

But  as  usual  she  was  quite  determined. 

"No,  please  don't.  Run  home  at  once  by  the  upper 
lande  path.  It  won't  do  in  any  case  for  you  to  be 
found  here.  Jwala-Singh  will  say  that  we  are  out  yacht 
ing — it's  the  only  safe  thing." 

She  pressed  his  hand,  and,  passing  through  the  half-open 
donr,  was  lost  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  Fort  wall. 

The  fitful  breeze,  which  since  sundown  had  played  with 
the  lazy  trails  of  summer  fog,  was  gently  sweeping  clear 
the  shores  of  the  bay  as  Rouanez  and  her  two  lieutenants 
reached  the  narrow  path  forking  toward  beach  and  moor 
behind  the  stables,  when  suddenly  from  the  sands  the 
dull  gleam  of  steel — a  mere  hint  of  steady  gray  against 
all  that  soft  moving  grayness — caught  Olier's  trained 
eyes. 

"The  gendarmes!"  he  said,  with  an  odd  catch  in  his 
voice,  and,  scanning  the  irregular  outline  of  the  heather- 
fields  above,  added: 

"On  both  sides,  too.    Well,  we  must  run  on,  that's  all!" 

"The  cave!"  Rouanez  whispered.  "That's  our  only 
chance  to  reach  the  water.  Quick!  Come  along!" 

313 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

In  an  instant  they  -were  running  at  full  speed,  Olier 
on  one  side,  Arzur  on  the  other,  of  that  resolute,  little, 
dark  figure  in  the  direction  of  the  overgrown  opening 
discovered  so  opportunely  a  week  or  so  before,  never 
pausing  to  breathe,  for  a  faint  echo  of  voices  seemingly 
drifting  back  from  the  Fort  glacis  urged  them  to  do  their 
best. 

At  last  the  inky  patch  of  bushes  began  to  silhouette 
itself  upon  the  constantly  moving  background  of  vapor, 
and  they  slackened  their  pace  a  little. 

"Have  you  any  matches?"  Olier  asked,  a  little  breath 
lessly,  of  Arzur,  who  had  moved  up  to  the  front,  both  on 
account  of  the  narrowness  of  the  track,  and  to  scout  for 
possible  obstacles. 

"Yes,  a  boxful,"  he  answered,  promptly. 

"Give  them  here.  I'll  go  down  first,  and  when  I  show 
a  light  hand  her  down  to  me." 

A  day  or  two  before  he  had  shown  Arzur  the  mouth 
of  the  old  souffleur,  and  the  lad  nodded  his  perfect  com 
prehension  of  the  order. 

They  were  in  the  thicket  now,  and,  grasping  the  ca 
pacious  silver  box  which,  having  only  recently  begun  to 
smoke,  Arzur  considered  it  a  proud  privilege  to  sport, 
Olier  slipped  into  the  opening  of  the  grim  "chimney"  and 
disappeared. 

There  was  a  curious  lump  in  Arzur's  throat,  not  brought 
there  by  self-pity,  but  by  the  sight  of  the  brave  woman 
who,  without  a  murmur  of  complaint,  was  coolly  tearing 
off  the  skirt  of  her  long-trained  gown. 

"There!"  she  said,  letting  the  frothy  billows  of  lace 
drop  about  her  feet  like  a  circle  of  snow.  "It's  much 
better  like  this."  And  she  actually  gave  one  of  her  lit 
tle,  low  laughs  as  she  shook  out  the  silky  folds  of  her 
underskirts,  and,  rolling  the  discarded  draperies  into  a 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

ball,  thrust  them  out  of  the  way  among  a  tangle  of  roots 
and  branches.  Just  then  a  feeble  glow  outlined  the  nar 
row  chasm  before  them,  and  Olier's  voice,  scarcely  raised 
above  a  whisper,  came  floating  up. 

"Lower  her  down!"  it  said,  and  Arzur,  catching  Rou- 
anez  firmly  beneath  the  shoulders,  let  her  slip  into  the 
arms  out-stretched  to  receive  her. 

It  was  pitch-dark  in  the  twisted  cleft  now,  and  a  dank, 
briny  freshness  rose  between  the  salt-grimed  walls,  but 
luckily  no  strong  air-current,  so  with  the  aid  of  a  match 
scratched  now  and  again  on  the  rough  granite,  the  task 
of  descending  to  the  bottom  of  this  ungainly  staircase 
was  not  as  difficult  as  Olier  had  feared,  thanks  especially 
to  the  silent,  clever,  unhesitating  fashion  in  which  Rou- 
anez  accomplished  her  share  of  it. 

When  they  took  ground  on  the  fine,  firm  sand  of  the 
Chapel  Cave,  they  saw  that  the  falling  tide  had  already 
laid  bare  the  lower  beach,  which  left  them  no  doubt  that 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  the  "  Kestrel's  "  canot,  supposing 
they  could  still  intercept  it,  would  be  unable  to  approach 
the  outer  rim  of  rocks.  After  a  short  consultation,  there 
fore,  they  left  the  grotto,  turning  to  the  right  under  the 
cliff,  and,  profiting  by  every  band  of  shadow  thrown  by 
the  capricious  rock  formation,  began  to  make  their  way 
toward  the  point  of  the  western  spur — the  longer  of  the 
two.  It  was  slippery  work,  for  the  wet  sea-weed  offered 
no  hold  to  feet  inadequately  shod,  and  yet  a  fall  might 
have  been  followed  by  such  grave  consequences  that  they 
forced  themselves  to  be  extraordinarily  careful,  in  spite 
of  their  eagerness  to  reach  the  end  of  the  long  chain  of 
bowlders  before  the  boat  went  past.  Fortunately  the 
flight  thus  far  had  consumed  but  an  inconsiderable  time, 
and,  hoping  that  the  fog  had  delayed  the  canot,  they  pulled 
up  alongside  the  tallest  and  most  uncouth  rock  of  all — a 

315 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

toothlike  cone  bearded  with  dark  weed,  terminating  the 
grim  range — and  flattened  themselves  against  it. 

Certainly  no  three  pairs  of  ears  ever  listened  with  bet 
ter  will  for  the  least  hint  of  oar-blades  in  the  water,  or 
three  pairs  of  eyes  sought  more  keenly  to  pierce  the 
fluctuating  dimness  of  a  veiling  mist.  For  a  moment  they 
thought  they  could  just  distinguish  the  "Kestrel's"  riding- 
lights  above  the  hazy  outlines  of  the  point  beyond,  but 
certainty  of  vision  was  impossible,  and  again  they  fell  silent, 
until  a  hardly  perceptible  cadence,  unmistakable  to  sailors, 
made  Rouanez  suddenly  touch  Olier's  arm  and  whisper: 

"The  boat!" 

"Yes,"  Arzur  said,  instantly,  "and  I'm  going  to  stop 
it  before  it  goes  by." 

He  kicked  off  the  wreck  of  his  patent-leathers,  tore 
out  of  his  dress-coat,  and  let  his  lithe  body  slip  without 
a  sound  into  the  dimness  creaming  at  their  feet. 

"Don't  hail  them  till  you  are  quite  close!"  Olier  warned 
him,  bending  over  the  place  where  he  had  vanished,  and 
where  a  scarf  of  mist  fluctuated  to  and  fro  as  if  purposely 
concealing  him  from  view. 

"Only  a  little  longer  now,"  Olier  murmured,  rejoining 
Rouanez.  "He  swims  like  a  fish,  and  he  can't  fail." 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  back,  "but  the  gendarmes  are 
not  always  as  stupid  and  clumsy  as  their  reputation. 
Perhaps  they  will  be  here  first."  And,  like  an  echo  of  her 
own  shrewdness,  a  sound  of  awkward  boots  crunching 
heavily  on  the  shingle  became  audible  some  two  hundred 
yards  away  along  the  beach.  There  was  a  pause,  and 
then  the  sound  came  nearer. 

"Here  they  are!"  she  said,  without  a  trace  of  surprise 
or  disquietude.  "We  must  swim,  too,  Olier." 

He  ground  his  teeth.  "Can  you  manage  it  in  those 
skirts?"  he  asked,  hurriedly. 

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THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"Of  course." 

She  let  fall  her  cloak,  and,  gliding  down  the  thick, 
leathery  mantle  of  broad-ribboned  kelp,  dropped  into 
the  water,  followed  instantly  by  Olier. 

"Right  ahead,  and  go  slow,"  he  explained,  advancing 
with  long,  easy  strokes  as  close  to  her  as  he  could  with 
out  hampering  her. 

The  night  was  so  calm'  that  even  the  soft  wash  of  the 
drowsy  tide  against  the  base  of  the  skerry  behind  them 
now  seemed  unduly  loud;  yet  the  breeze  was  freshening 
a  trifle,  for  a  wide  curtain  of  shining  mist  passed  over 
their  heads,  rolling  upon  itself  like  smoke  and  leaving  a 
clear  lane  through  the  shrouded  night. 

Again  the  sound  of  advancing  men  was  wafted  toward 
them,  and  suddenly  a  voice  raised  to  its  highest  pitch 
called  out: 

"La,  mon  Officier  .  .  .  beyond  the  rocks  .  .  .  !" 

Olier  smothered  a  curse.  "They're  going  to  shoot!" 
he  muttered,  and,  grasping  her  by  the  shoulder,  went 
under  with  her  just  as  the  word  "Fire!"  streaked  the 
darkness  with  bright  flame,  and  a  shower  of  lead  tore  the 
water  where  the  two  swimmers  had  been.  And  then  the 
capricious  fog  rolled  back  again,  and  in  momentary 
safety  the  two  heads  reappeared  still  further  out. 

"That  was  a  near  thing,"  Olier  grumbled  as  soon  as 
he  could  speak.  He  still  held  Rouanez,  who  was  push 
ing  her  hair  from  her  eyes.  "Where  in  thunder  can  that 
boat  be?" 

Accustomed  as  they  both  were  to  the  sea,  their  short 
submersion  had  not  troubled  them  much,  but  the  posi 
tion  was  a  terrible  one  none  the  less,  in  spite  of  their  trust 
in  Arzur  and  Penruddock.  In  a  few  minutes  more  they 
had  made  further  progress,  and  in  that  uncertain  light 
were  practically  out  of  reach  of  the  gendarmes'  carbines, 

317 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

even  if  the  mist  should  lift  again.  But  what  if  the  boat 
failed  to  find  them? 

"Try  to  float,"  he  advised,  his  very  heart  wrung  with 
pity  and  admiration  by  that  steady  pluck  which  not 
once  had  weakened. 

"I  don't  like  to  float;  it  makes  me  dizzy." 

"Not  if  you  lean  your  head  on  my  out-stretched  arm; 
try!"  he  pleaded,  well  aware  that  she  must  be  almost 
exhausted,  though  she  would  never  own  it,  and,  with  an 
obedience  which  touched  him  more  deeply  still  than  all 
that  had  gone  before,  she  turned  and  did  as  she  was 
told. 

"There,"  he  whispered,  trying  to  make  his  voice  sound 
cheerful,  "we  are  awfully  comfortable." 

He  knew  that  she  was  smiling,  which  intuitive  knowl 
edge  came  near  to  breaking  him  down  utterly,  and  he  was 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  taste  of  blood  in  his  mouth  as 
he  brought  his  teeth  upon  his  lower  lip  to  keep  back  the 
words  that  must  not  be  spoken.  He  could  scarcely  dis 
tinguish  her  delicate  profile  faintly  outlined  against  the 
dull  water,  but  the  touch  of  the  little  head  pillowed  on 
his  arm  made  him  wince;  it  had  something  so  inex 
pressibly  childlike  and  confiding. 

So  they  lay,  saving  their  strength,  slowly  rocked  by 
broad,  almost  imperceptible  undulations,  and  above  them 
once  or  twice  the  mist  parted  upward  to  the  quiet  stars 
and  softly  closed  again. 

Beyond  the  fog,  once  more  thickening  to  a  cloud  upon 
the  bay,  Arzur  was  clinging  to  the  gunnel  of  the  boat 
gasping  out  his  story  to  Penruddock,  who  had  come  him 
self  to  fetch  his  Captain. 

*  *  Hs  *  *  *  * 

"Are  you  dizzy?"  Olier  asked,  presently. 

318 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

"No,  not  at  all." 

In  a  little  while  she  stirred  uneasily,  as  if  to  try 
and  relax  the  swathing  folds  of  her  saturated  garments, 
that  seemed  to  cling  more  and  more  heavily  about 
her. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked  again. 

"Nothing  much,  only  these  silly  skirts  twining  them 
selves  around  my  ankles,"  she  hesitatingly  admitted,  but 
in  a  moment  more,  her  voice  altered  for  the  first  time, 
she  cried  out: 

"It  is  not  that.  We  are  caught  in  something — there's 
something  moving  under  us!" 

His  thicker  garments  and  perhaps  the  disposition  of  the 
tangle  had  prevented  him  from  noticing  it  sooner,  but 
now  a  shudder  shook  him  from  head  to  foot.  He  knew 
and  recognized  that  soft,  insidious  clutch. 

"The  weed!"  he  gasped,  tightening  his  hold  upon  her. 
"The  weed!"  A  prickling,  blistering  sound  came  from 
the  water  all  around. 

She  understood  at  once,  in  a  flash  that  left  her  trem 
bling,  too,  but  she  did  not  try  to  struggle. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "the  weed!" 

"Don't  move,  Rouanez — for  your  life,  don't  move!"  he 
implored.  It  was  the  first  time  her  name  had  ever  passed 
his  lips. 

She  shifted  her  head  ever  so  gently  on  his  arm,  with  a 
little,  tender,  fearless  smile.  "Why  should  I?"  she  said, 
very  low,  and  with  that  undying  self-mockery  which  was 
her  second  nature  she  added:  "The  best  of  omens — for 
you  and  me?" 

Then,  and  then  only,  the  iron  reserve  that  had  held  him 
in  its  grasp  for  all  those  months  gave  way.  "Yes,  the 
best,"  he  cried,  with  a  sob,  drawing  her  passionately  to 
him.  "The  very  best!" 


THE    CRADLE    OF    THE    ROSE 

Her  face  was   hidden  on  his  heart   now — and,  with  a 
slight  swirling  of  the  surface,  the  weed  went  down. 
******* 
"Olier!  Olier!"  Arzur  was  calling  softly  from  the  bows 
as  the  boat  slid  noiselessly  through   the   curling   mist- 
wreaths.     But  no  answer  reached  him  across  the  silky 
hollows  of  the  sea. 


THE    END 


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